OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


*J     6  i^**^~^^        ^          <jA^-<-~— X. 


3,  '  f  • 


A  FOREST  ORCHID 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


A   FOREST   O.RCHID 


AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

ELLA    HIGGINSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "  FROM  THE  LAND  OF  THE  SNOW-PEARLS 


garfc 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 

1902 
All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1897, 
BY  THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  September,  1897.     Reprinted 
September,  1902. 


NortoootJ 
J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass,  U.S.A. 


Co 
MY  MOTHER  AND  MY  FATHER 


M6724.14 


I  AM  indebted  to  the  publishers  of  McCluris, 
Leslie's  Weekly,  The  Outlook,  and  to  the 
Messrs.  S.  H.  Moore  &  Company  and  T.  J. 
Kirkpatrick  &  Company,  for  the  kind  permis 
sion  to  reprint  some  of  the  stories  in  this 
book. 

E.  H. 


A   FOREST   ORCHID 


A   FOREST   ORCHID 

"  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Sumas  Brown.  "  I  bet  he's  got  the  big-head. 
I  never  see  anybody  come  out  here  from  Baws- 
ton  that  didn't  have  it.  They  all  git  it  took  off 
of  'em  in  a  hurry,  though,  I  notice.  What  does 
sech  a  high-an'-mighty  want  of  a  shingle-mill  an' 
loggin'-camp,  I'd  like  to  know  !  Here,  Sidonie, 
let's  hull  these  strawberries." 

She  sat  down  and  took  a  pan  of  berries  on  her 
lap.  She  had  the  generous  pink  flesh  and  the 
comfortable  look  generally  that  come  to  a  woman 
at  fifty  if  she  has  not  fretted  her  health  away 
over  small  cares.  There  was  another  Mrs. 
Brown  at  the  logging-camp,  and,  as  initials  were 
not  in  high  favor,  they  were  known  as  Mrs. 
"  Soomas  "  Brown  and  Mrs.  Goshen  Brown,  from 
the  towns  in  which  they  had  formerly  dwelt. 

"  I  liked  him,"  said  Sidonie,  sitting  down  and 
taking  a  strawberry  in  her  pale,  delicate  fingers. 
"  I  didn't  think  he  was  so  bad.  He  has  good 
eyes,  and  they  are  such  a  beautiful  brown." 

Sidonie  was  very  different  from  her  mother. 
She  was  slender,  almost  to  fragility.  Her  fig- 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

ure  was  round  and  perfectly  poised.  She  had 
much  brown  hair  with  gold  streaks  glancing 
loosely  through  it.  Her  eyes  were  large  and 
earnest  and  gray.  There  were  blue  veins  in  her 
temples ;  but  with  all  her  delicacy  she  had  a 
look  of  deep  strength  and  self-reliance. 

She  wore  a  lawn  dress  that  had  faded  to  a 
light  green  which  was  very  becoming  to  her 
pale,  clear  complexion. 

"  O'  course  yuh'd  like  him  if  I  didn't,"  com 
plained  Mrs.  Sumas  Brown.  "  It  w'u'dn't  be 
you  if  yuh  c'u'dn't  disagree  with  a  body !  I 
ain't  a-goin'  to  put  on  any  lugs  fer  him,  any 
ways,  if  he  has  bought  the  mill  an'  the  whole 
loggin'-camp.  He  can  take  what  the  rest  o'  the 
boarders  take.  Yuh  needn't  think  I'm  a-goin' 
to  have  my  best  napkins  used  up  fer  him, 
either.  I  see  yuh  a-puttin'  one  at  his  plate." 

"  Mrs.  Goshen  Brown  gives  her  boarders  nap 
kins,"  said  Sidonie,  with  quiet  diplomacy. 

"  She  does  !  "  Mrs.  Sumas  Brown  closed  her 
lips  in  a  scornful  expression.  "Well,  then,  Mr. 
Ethelbert  Gilder  er  Mr.  Anybody  Else  can  have 
a  napkin  a  meal  here,  if  he  wants,  er  six  napkins 
a  meal.  Mis'  Goshen  Brown'll  have  to  get  up 
before  the  chickens  if  she  expects  to  git  ahead 
o'  this  old  hen.  There !  Yuh  go  out  an'  ring 
the  dinner-bell  —  the  whistle's  jest  blew." 

The  Rynearson  shingle-mill  had  been  set  upon 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

a  creek  in  a  little  clearing  in  the  heart  of  a  dense 
fir  and  cedar  forest.  It  was  a  full  mile  from  the 
Nooksack  River  ;  but  it  was  indifferent  to  rivers. 
Two  narrow  steel  rails  went  shining  along  the 
edge  of  the  forest,  and  two  others  curved  grace 
fully  down  to  the  mill  itself. 

The  clearing  was  not  large.  Around  it  cir 
cled  the  dark  forest  wall,  with  the  railroad  cleav 
ing  a  narrow  avenue  through  on  one  side  and  the 
skid-road  on  the  other ;  while  a  wavering  line  of 
silver-dappled  alders  pointed  out  the  way  that  the 
creek  went. 

The  Rynearson  mill  had  recently  become  the 
Gilder  mill. 

The  Suraas  Brown  residence  was  what  is 
known  as  a  "shack."  It  was  larger  than  most 
shacks,  however,  having  three  bedrooms,  a 
kitchen,  and  a  dining-room.  It  was  made  of 
"  shakes,"  which  gave  it  a  picturesque  look.  It 
was  lined  and  ceiled  with  strong,  white  muslin 
to  prevent  the  entrance  of  sawdust. 

When  Mr.  Gilder  entered  the  dining-room, 
his  glance  went  to  the  neatly  laid  table  with  a 
bowl  of  eglantine  in  the  centre  ;  from  that  to 
the  white  walls  with  wild  "  hanging-basket " 
vine  trained  over  them  from  the  little  painted 
cans  in  which  it  grew ;  to  the  pale  drifts  of 
maidenhair  fern  growing  in  corners  ;  the  wild 
hop-vines  climbing  over  the  open  windows. 

5 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

There  was  a  vase  full  of  scarlet  columbine,  and 
another  of  wild,  rose-colored  clover. 

Then  his  eyes  came  with  sudden  surprise  to 
Sidonie  —  and  went  no  further. 

After  supper  that  evening  Mr.  Gilder  walked 
around  the  clearing  aimlessly.  He  had  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  was  smoking  a  cigar.  There 
were  at  least  seventy-five  men  in  the  camp,  and 
not  one  with  whom  he  could  have  a  thought 
in  common.  They  were  assembled  in  various 
shacks,  playing  cards  and  drinking  whiskey. 

He  walked  down  to  the  creek  and  sat  on  the 
bridge,  and  asked  himself  if  he  could  endure  a 
year  in  such  a  hole,  even  for  the  fortune  he  ex 
pected  to  make.  He  walked  a  little  way  out 
the  skid-road,  but  the  skids  were  greasy ;  so  he 
turned  and  went  back  in  a  terrible  disgust. 

He  told  himself  that  he  would  go  to  his  shack 
and  write  to  Constance  —  he  expected  to  marry 
Constance  —  and  describe  the  place  he  was  in. 
She  was  a  sweet  and  tender  woman.  She  would 
sympathize  with  him. 

On  his  way  to  the  shack  he  passed  the  sheds, 
open  on  one  side,  where  the  huge  bulls  used 
on  the  skid-road  were  resting  in  their  stalls.  He 
paused  to  look  at  them. 

Something  light  in  the  dusk  of  one  of  the 
stalls  attracted  his  glance.  It  moved  and  came 
toward  him. 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

It  was  Sidonie,  in  a  short,  full  skirt  and  high 
boots. 

"  I've  been  in  to  see  the  bulls,"  she  said,  simply. 
"  I  come  every  night.  They  all  know  me,  but 
old  Blue's  my  favorite." 

Gilder  would  have  laughed,  but  something 
in  her  voice  kept  him  silent.  She  stooped  and 
patted  the  bull  gently.  He  turned  his  head, 
breathing  heavily,  and  licked  her  hand.  "  His 
breath  is  sweet,"  she  said,  leaning  upon  him. 
"  He  likes  to  have  me  sit  on  him.  I  keep  this 
dress  just  to  wear  out  here.  The  bull-puncher 
tells  me"  — she  laughed,  softly— "that  if  I 
miss  coming  one  night  they're  so  cranky  all 
next  day  he  can't  do  anything  with  them." 

She  came  out  and  stood  beside  Gilder.  The 
sun  was  going  down  over  the  tops  of  the  trees ; 
it  set  a  fire  of  reddish  gold  in  the  girl's  magnifi 
cent  coils  of  hair.  She  stood  silently  looking 
at  the  bulls. 

"  How  do  you  endure  this  life  ? "  asked 
Gilder,  suddenly  recognizing  that  the  girl 
was  above  her  surroundings  and  her  people. 
She  turned  her  cool,  gray  eyes  steadily  upon 
him. 

"I  teach  school,"  she  said,  "in  a  funny 
little  log-house  on  the  bank  of  the  Nooksack. 
It's  quite  a  mile.  It's  a  lovely  path  —  like  a 
narrow  gray  ribbon  —  through  the  deep  forest. 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

Then  I  help  mother  Saturdays,  and  I  have  Sun 
days  and  evenings  to  myself." 

"  And  these  Sundays  and  evenings  ?  What 
do  you  do  with  them  ?  " 

She  turned  her  head  with  a  slow,  easy  move 
ment  ;  it  struck  him  that  it  was  set  upon  her 
slender,  beautiful  throat  like  a  lily.  "  I  read  and 
study.  And  there's  always  the  forest." 

"  It  must  be  very  lonely,"  said  Gilder.  He 
was  leaning  on  the  bars,  looking  down  on  her. 
His  eyes  were  full  of  her  compelling  beauty. 

She  smiled.  "  One  can't  be  lonely  with  the 
forest  at  one's  door,"  she  said.  "  Of  course  the 
mill  and  the  whole  clearing  are  —  " 

She  stopped,  laughing.  Gilder's  glance  fol 
lowed  hers  over  the  unpainted  shacks,  the  ugly 
mill,  the  tall,  dusty  brakes,  and  the  great  charred 
stumps  lifting  their  black  forms  everywhere  to 
the  sunset.  Not  one  thing  of  beauty  —  except 
the  one  to  which  his  eyes  returned  with  a  thrill 
of  pleasure. 

"  But  fifty  yards  in  any  direction,"  she  went 
on,  bringing  her  glance  back  to  his,  "  and  you 
are  in  the  forest.  I  don't  believe  you  know 
what  our  forests  are  like.  They're  so  deep  and 
dim  and  still.  The  moss  is  like  a  pale  green 
velvet  carpet,  and  the  great  trees  go  up,  so 
straight  and  close  together,  two  hundred,  three 
hundred  feet." 

8 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

"That  is  one  of  your  'boom'  stories,"  he 
interrupted,  with  an  amused  smile. 

"  It's  a  true  one,"  she  replied,  smiling,  too,  but 
breathing  stilly.  "  And  the  sunlight  only  gets 
through  enough  to  lie  on  the  moss  in  tiny,  gold 
shapes.  The  firs  are  clocks  —  they  drop  a  cone 
for  every  minute  ;  and  when  it  rains  you  can  hear 
it  sinking  into  the  earth.  Pan  is  not  dead  !  "  she 
exclaimed,  in  a  sudden  burst  of  tumultuous  pas 
sion,  striking  her  palms  together.  Then  a  swift, 
deep  color  came  upon  her  face,  and  she  was 
silent. 

Gilder  would  have  been  amused  had  he  not 
been  so  touched.  A  man  who  is  both  touched 
and  amused  is  interested. 

He  walked  with  her  to  her  door.  All  the 
windows  shone  out  like  brass.  The  dusty  ferns 
took  on  a  sudden  quivering  glory  of  color.  Ame 
thyst  clouds  were  breaking  apart  in  the  tall  tops 
of  the  trees.  He  followed  her  into  the  dining- 
room. 

"I'm  coming  in  to  see  your  books,"  he  said. 

She  hesitated.  It  was  a  real  blush  that  came 
now.  "  I've  not  very  many,"  she  said  ;  she  still 
stood  hesitating.  Then  she  lifted  her  head  with 
a  movement  that  would  have  been  haughty  in 
any  other  woman,  and  walked  to  a  door  at  one 
end  of  the  room,  he  following  her,  and  flung  it 
open. 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

"This  is  my  study,"  she  said,  with  the  air  of 
a  queen.  "  No  one  has  ever  been  in  here.  It's 
not  arranged  for  visitors  ;  but  you  may  come  in." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied,  entering. 

It  was  a  tiny  room,  not  more  than  eight  feet 
square.  The  floor  was  covered  with  blue-striped 
matting.  There  was  one  small  window,  curtained 
with  some  thin  blue  stuff.  Delicate  vines  were 
outlined  against  it.  The  walls  were  lined  with 
books.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  was  a  small 
home-made  table,  painted  white.  A  wooden 
chair,  also  painted  white,  was  drawn  close  to  it. 

Gilder  walked  about  the  room,  looking  at  the 
books.  They  were  all  good,  but  some  of  them 
amazed  him.  He  had  expected  to  find  Long 
fellow  and  Whittier ;  but  he  was  unprepared  for 
Rossetti,  Tennyson,  Dante,  Milton,  Hugo,  Eliot, 
and  translations  of  Virgil  and  Goethe. 

Sidonie  sat  down  and  rested  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  sinking  her  chin  in  her  palms.  She  looked 
at  him  steadily  as  he  went  about  the  room ;  there 
were  burning  questions  in  her  eyes.  Presently 
he  brought  a  chair  from  the  dining-room  and  sat 
down  opposite  her. 

The  table  was  littered  with  magazines.  A  book 
lay  open,  with  the  leaves  pressed  down. 

"You  have  read  all  these  books?"  he  asked. 

"Many  times." 

He  took  another  look  at  the  shelves. 


10 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

"  You  have  read  more  wisely  than  most  col 
lege  women.  Which,  of  all  these  books,  is  your 
favorite  ? " 

She  laid  her  hand,  palm  downward,  on  the 
open  book.  It  was  the  Bible.  It  was  open  at 
the  fourth  chapter  of  Solomon's  Song. 

"  I  thought  you  would  name  Tennyson  or 
Longfellow,"  he  said,  after  a  surprised  silence. 
"  Or,  perhaps,  Rossetti.  I  certainly  expected 
that  you  would  name  a  poet." 

"There  is  no  poetry  like  that."  She  leaned 
toward  him,  pressing  her  hand  on  the  book. 
There  was  a  fire  in  her  eyes.  "There  never 
will  be  any  poets  like  the  men  who  wrote  it. 
They  were  not  afraid." 

He  was  conscious  of  a  deep  thrill  of  exaltation  ; 
a  sudden  shaking  loose  of  low  ambitions  and  a 
rising  to  a  clearer,  higher  atmosphere. 

He  looked  intently  into  her  eyes.  "Who 
taught  you  to  feel  that  ? " 

"I've  felt  it  ever  since  I  could  read.  Don't 
imagine  I  believe  all  the  Bible !  I  don't.  One 
must  sift  and  sift  to  get  the  gold.  You  can  hear 
God's  voice  all  through  the  Bibie,  if  you  listen 
—  just  as  you  can  hear  it  when  the  wind  blows 
through  the  grass,  or  the  sea  comes  up  the 
beach.  But  you  have  to  listen!  —  listen  for 
yourself !  You  mustn't  trust  anybody's  ears 
but  your  own." 

ii 


A   FOREST    ORCHID 

Gilder  sat  for  some  moments  playing  with  a 
pencil  and  looking  at  the  girl.  He  was  lost  in 
deep  thought.  At  last  he  said,  slowly,  half 
smiling  :  "  I  want  to  ask  you  one  more  question. 
I  will  promise  to  ask  no  more  to-night.  You 
have  read  widely,  and  formed  your  own  opin 
ions.  College  women  and  university  women 
parrot  out  the  opinions  and  criticisms  of  their 
professors  as  if  they  were  their  own.  But  you 
have  had  to  rely  solely  upon  yourself.  Of  all 
the  women  you  have  read  about,  what  one  would 
you  rather  have  been  ? " 

She  was  silent ;  her  eyes  grew  larger  and 
darker.  Her  face  was  eloquent  with  rapid  and 
varied  thought.  Her  deep,  noiseless  breathing 
spoke  of  repressed  passion  —  passions,  rather  — 
springing  to  an  old  and  familiar  struggle.  When 
she  spoke  her  voice  was  calm  ;  but  he  saw  that 
her  throat  was  throbbing. 

"  Sappho  "  —  her  color  came  and  went ;  "  Cleo 
patra  "  —  the  throbbing  in  her  throat  quickened  ; 
she  hesitated ;  a  beautiful  shining  came  upon 
her  face  ;  she  uttered  softly —  "  Ruth.  Most  of 
all,  Mary,  the  mother  of  Christ.  After  her"  — 
there  was  a  light  on  her  face  now  that  made 
Gilder  look  at  her  as  one  looks  at  the  far,  high 
lights  of  dawn,  rapt,  exalted,  feeling  God  be 
hind  them  —  "after  her,  the  Mary  Magdalen." 

"  The  Mary  Magdalen  f"  he  breathed. 

12 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

"Yes;  oh,  yes.  She  is  to  all  women  what 
Christ  is  to  all  the  world.  She  is  the  greatest 
woman  the  world  has  had." 

For  a  little  while  Mr.  Ethelbert  Gilder  sat 
speechless  before  this  country  girl  whom  he  had 
offered  to  teach,  and  who  served  her  mother's 
boarders  as  coolly  and  as  gracefully  as  she  would 
have  given  a  cup  of  tea  to  a  visitor ;  this  girl 
who  went  nightly  to  caress  a  dozen  tired  bulls 
in  their  stalls,  and  to  examine  their  sides,  lest 
they  might  have  been  prodded  too  deeply  during 
some  hard,  up-hill  pull. 

"  Now  you  must  go,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  It's 
ten  o'clock." 

He  went  out  into  the  sweet  June  night.  The 
moon  was  moving  in  slow  majesty  through 
the  trees.  The  little  clearing  was  beautiful  in 
the  soft  light.  Somehow  the  place  did  not  seem 
so  unendurable  to  Gilder  as  he  sat  on  his  front 
steps,  smoking,  far  into  the  night,  and  thinking 
of  the  girl  whose  light  shone  out  through  the 
vines  that  climbed  over  her  window. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday.  Every  one 
else  had  breakfasted  when  Gilder  reached  the 
dining-room.  He  was  conscious  of  a  feeling 
of  disappointment  when  his  breakfast  was 
brought  in  by  Mrs.  Sumas  Brown,  instead  of 
Sidonie. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  girl  came  in.     Her  face 

'3 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

was  glowing;  her  bright  hair  was  damp  with 
dew  and  fog. 

"  I  expected  to  find  oceans  of  flowers  in  the 
forest  this  morning,"  she  said.  "  But  I  came 
upon  this  one  beautiful  orchid,  and  then  I  de 
sired  no  others.  Beside  it  all  other  flowers 
seem  pale  and  not  worth  carrying  home." 

She  held  toward  him  a  most  beautiful  speci 
men  of  the  Calypso  borealis,  an  orchid  found  in 
deep,  damp  places  in  the  Washington  forests. 
It  was  of  a  rich,  rosy  purple.  Its  fragrance  was 
at  once  ravishing  and  elusive. 

Gilder  examined  it  with  delight. 

"  I  found  it  three  miles  from  here,"  went  on 
Sidonie,  gleefully  as  a  child.  "  It  grows  in  a 
dim  glen,  shut  in  by  dark,  old  trees,  with  a 
golden  green  moss  all  over  their  trunks  and  over 
the  earth ;  and  long,  silver  moss  hangs  from  all 
the  branches.  There  is  not  a  sound  in  there ; 
even  the  birds  come  and  look  at  you  and  do  not 
sing.  Don't  you  want  to  go  with  me  some 
Sunday  ? " 

Mrs.  Sumas  Brown  opened  the  door. 

"  Well,  good  grieve ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Where 
yuh  b'en  ?  It's  high  time  you  come!  D' yuh  git 
any  licorish  root  ?  I  bet  yuh  fooled  the  whole 
mornin'  away  an'  never  onct  thought  o'  licorish 
root ! " 

"I  did  forget,"  said  the   girl,    slowly.     The 


A   FOREST    ORCHID 

glow  went  out  of  her  face.  She  took  the  orchid 
from  Gilder  and  went  into  her  room.  He  heard 
the  door  close  between  them. 

"I  never  see  her  beat!"  grumbled  Mrs.  Sumas 
Brown.  "Always  a-gittin'  her  feelin's  hurt  over 
nothin'." 

Then  Gilder  fell  to  thinking  seriously  of  the 
girl  and  of  her  life. 

"She  is  like  the  orchid,"  he  thought,  "that 
has  sprung  up  in  the  deep,  dark  forest  and 
wastes  its  delicate  beauty  and  fragrance." 


Two  weeks  later  Gilder  was  leaving  the  din 
ing-room  one  morning  when  Sidonie  came  in 
like  a  whirlwind.  She  was  breathing  swiftly 
with  excitement. 

"  Oh,  come  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  There's  just 
time  !  They're  coming  !  They're  bringing  up 
old  Ginger!" 

She  was  gone  like  a  flash.  Gilder  followed 
her.  He  had  not  the  faintest  surmise  as  to 
what  or  who  old  Ginger  was  —  it  was  sufficient 
for  him  to  know  that  the  girl  bade  him  come. 

She  sped  before  him  down  the  skid-road  until 
she  reached  a  curve  at  the  top  of  a  long  hill. 
There  she  poised  on  a  skid,  in  a  quiver  of  excite 
ment,  and  looked  back,  signalling  him  to  hasten. 

15 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

He  reached  her  side  breathless  with  his  run. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It's  old  Ginger  !  "  she  panted.  "  I've  been 
so  afraid  I  should  not  be  here  when  they  brought 
him  !  Oh,  look  !  Isn't  it  grand  ?  Isn't  it  worth 
coming  miles  to  see  ? " 

Gilder  looked.  Twelve  splendid  bulls  were 
straining  up  the  sloping  incline,  dragging  be 
hind  them  an  immense  tree  —  larger  than  any 
thing  he  had  ever  imagined  in  the  tree  line. 
Several  men  —  hook-tenders,  bull-punchers,  skid- 
greasers —  ran  beside  it,  greasing  the  skids, 
goading  the  bulls,  pushing  here  and  pulling 
there  with  cant-hooks.  There  was  much  shout 
ing,  much  creaking  of  chains,  much  straining 
of  noble  animals  and  swelling  of  hot  nostrils. 
The  muscles  stood  out  in  their  backs  and  sides 
like  ropes ;  their  eyes  rolled,  their  feet  slipped 
and  clung  and  stumbled  to  new  foothold.  The 
blood  spurted  under  sharp,  and  often  cruel, 
pricks  from  the  steel  goads.  The  huge  cedar 
bulk  slid,  groaning  and  creaking,  up  the  skids. 
The  greaser  ran  ahead  of  the  bulls,  stooping 
constantly  to  drop  splashes  of  grease  on  the 
skids  from  long  wooden  paddles. 

"They're  a-comin' ! "  he  yelled  to  Sidonie. 
"  Better  git  out  o'  the  way  !  Look-ee  out  there  ! 
That  end'll  fly  around  an'  hit  yuh  !  Hey,  miss  ! 
Look-ee  out  there  !  " 

16 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

But  Sidonie  pressed  recklessly  near,  until 
Gilder,  in  whose  veins  some  of  the  girl's  en 
thusiasm  was  commencing  to  burn,  took  a  firm 
hold  of  her  arm  and  drew  her  aside.  She 
was  trembling  with  excitement.  "  Oh,  see  old 
Blue!"  she  cried.  "He's  the  off -wheeler!  Isn't 
he  noble  ?  "  and  she  waved  her  kerchief  proudly 
as  the  panting  brute  struggled  by. 

With  a  final  triumphant  effort  and  plunge 
the  tree  was  borne  to  its  destination  and  lay 
motionless  on  the  skids. 

The  trembling  went  suddenly  out  of  the  girl. 
The  fire  died  out  of  her  face.  "  What  a  pity  !  " 
she  said,  looking  down  gravely  at  the  fallen 
cedar.  "  Oh,  what  a  pity  !  And  we  have  been 
enjoying  it !  Let  us  go  back." 

As  they  walked  along,  she  looked  back  re 
gretfully.  "  Poor  old  Ginger  !  He  was  the  king 
of  the  forest  all  these  years.  Two  men  lost 
their  lives  bringing  him  down  from  the  skies." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Gilder,  with  unconscious  conde 
scension.  "One  doesn't  think  of  a  place  like 
this  having  its  tragedies." 

"  Oh,  doesn't  one ! "  flashed  out  the  girl,  in 
stantly,  with  a  great  scorn.  "  I  know  what  you 
think.  You  think  we  are  clods.  You  think 
we  are  in  a  groove!  Let  me  tell  you  that  you 
are  in  a  groove,  too,  —  a  groove  so  narrow  and 
so  deep  that  you'll  never  get  out !  You  have 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

no  joy  in  nature ;  you  have  no  joy  in  yourself ; 
you  have  no  joy  in  God  !  You  look  at  a  flower 
or  a  weed,  and  you  say  it's  beautiful  or  ugly, 
as  you  think ;  you  look  at  a  noble  animal,  or  a 
great  forest,  or  a  scarlet  sunset,  and  you  see 
nothing  but  the  thing  itself !  You  do  not  see 
God  in  anything ;  you  have  no  religion.  You 
belong  to  some  church,  probably,  because  your 
father  does,  or  your  mother  does,  or  your  great- 
grandmother  did  before  you  were  born,  and  if 
you  were  asked  what  you  believe,  or  what  your 
church  believes,  you  couldn't  tell!"  Gilder 
winced.  "You  have  no  joy  in  yourself,"  went 
on  the  girl,  passionately.  "  You  can't  be  alone 
an  hour  without  being  bored.  You  have  to  be 
amused  —  like  a  child  !  " 

She  sprang  up  the  steps,  but  Gilder  caught 
her  hand  and  held  it,  compelling  her  to  turn. 
She  looked  down  on  him  under  frowning  brows. 
Her  face  glowed ;  her  eyes  flamed  with  a  blue 
fire.  She  was  most  beautiful. 

Gilder  smiled  at  her  with  that  tenderness  that 
comes  to  a  man's  face  when  he  is  beginning  to 
love  unconsciously.  "  You're  a  bigot,"  he  said, 
thrilling  deliciously  as  her  hand  struggled  to 
release  itself.  "  You're  very,  very  terrible,  and 
I'm  afraid  of  you." 

Then  he  let  her  go.  She  gave  him  a  fierce 
look  and  flashed  into  the  house.  He  went 
18 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 


away,  still  smiling.  "  She's  perfect  now,"  he 
said.  "That  little  spurt  of  temper  has  made  her 
perfect." 


Mrs.  Sumas  Brown  came  into  the  dining-room 
and  sat  down.  She  was  beating  butter  and 
sugar  together.  Sidonie  was  arranging  the 
table  for  dinner. 

"  Fer  pity's  sake  ! "  exclaimed  her  mother. 
"  What  a  little  dab  o'  pickles  !  'S  that  all  yuh're 
a-goin'  to  put  on  ?  'Sh-h-h !  There  goes  Mis' 
Goshen  Brown  by.  I  wonder  what  ails  'er. 
She  looked  in  here  sour  as  swill.  I  guess  she's 
lost  a  boarder,  an'  's  lookin'  in  here  to  see  'f 
we've  got  him." 

It  was  September.  Gilder  had  not  only  en 
dured  three  months  in  the  heart  of  a  Washing 
ton  forest,  but  had  found  them  to  be  the  happiest 
months  of  his  life.  He  was  in  love  with  Sidonie. 

Constance  was  his  cousin,  and  she  had  prom 
ised  to  marry  him.  It  was  a  kind  of  family  ar 
rangement.  They  had  a  mild,  comfortable 
affection  for  each  other  —  most  comfortable. 
Gilder,  for  instance,  had  never  felt  murder  in 
his  heart  while  watching  Constance  waltzing  in 
the  arms  of  some  other  man.  That  is  the  surest 
test  of  love.  When  a  man  can  be  indifferent  to 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

that,  either  his  love  or  his  nature  is  of  the  nfilk- 
and-water  sort.  Gilder,  considering  waltzing  a 
bore,  was  grateful  to  every  man  who  took  Con 
stance  off  his  hands  at  a  ball. 

He  went  to  see  her  regularly ;  and  kissed  her 
dutifully,  with  much  calmness  and  a  certain  pleas 
ure.  She  was  a  pretty  woman,  dainty  and  pa 
trician.  But  all  her  kisses  distilled  into  one 
kiss  could  not  have  sent  the  delicious  fire  rolling 
along  his  veins  like  one  touch  of  Sidonie's  small, 
firm  hand. 

When  he  had  left  Boston  to  make  his  fortune 
in  cedar  shingles,  there  had  been  the  understand 
ing  between  them  that  he  was  to  remain  a  year 
and  then  return  and  marry  Constance,  and  he 
was  absolutely  sure  that  she  was  the  kind  of 
girl  to  hold  him  to  his  promise. 

Now  he  knew  what  love  was.  On  Puget 
Sound  the  summer  nights  are  long,  purple  twi 
lights  that  soon  after  midnight  silver  into  dawn. 
At  one  o'clock  the  birds  utter  their  first  drowsy 
notes,  and  dawn  is  felt,  rather  than  seen,  com 
ing  up  the  East.  Night  after  night,  as  the  sum 
mer  went  on,  Gilder  had  sat  with  Sidonie  in 
her  tiny  study  till  midnight.  There  was  no 
society  here  ;  no  one  to  suggest  impropriety  and 
steal  the  pure  sweetness  out  of  their  intercourse. 

Gilder  had  taught  the  girl  much ;  but  she  had 
taught  him  more.  He  had  drawn  from  her  the 

20 


A    FOREST   ORCHID 

sublimity  and  the  exaltation  of  love,  life,  and 
thought.  He  felt  himself  rising,  a  stronger  and 
a  better  man,  out  of  his  old  self.  He  had  the 
sublime  exultation  of  one  who  mounts  into 
clearer  and  higher  air ;  who  climbs  to  great  and 
lonely  heights,  and  finds  the  world  well  lost  for 
the  passionate,  still  rapture  of  being  alone  with 
God  and  of  seeing  with  new  vision  the  beauty 
and  the  majesty  of  His  smallest  work. 

And  the  girl  who  had  led  him  up  these  heights 
—  he  loved  her  so  he  trembled  when  he  went 
into  her  presence.  He  worshipped  her.  Often 
he  could  not  lift  his  eyes  for  what  was  in  them 
—  what  he  dared  not  let  her  see.  Often  he  could 
not  speak  —  for  what  he  dared  not  let  her  hear. 
He  had  not  forgotten  Constance. 

The  thought  of  her,  and  of  his  allegiance  to 
her,  tortured  him.  He  could  put  it  from  him 
during  business  hours  and  cares,  and  during  the 
sweet,  delicious  hours  he  spent  with  Sidonie ; 
but  when  he  was  alone  it  became  almost  un 
endurable.  Constance  —  after  having  known 
Sidonie  !  A  pale,  odorless  lily  —  after  having 
found  a  rare  and  fragrant  orchid  in  the  lonely 
place  where  God  himself  had  set  it !  Who  would 
go  back  and  dwell  with  the  many  in  the  valley, 
after  having  dwelt  alone  with  one  other  on  the 
heights  ? 

As  Mrs.  Sumas  Brown  spoke,  Gilder  passed 

21 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

the  door  on  his  way  to  his  shack.  She  saw 
him,  and  cast  a  shrewd,  curious  look  at  Sidonie. 
"  Yuh  needn't  blush  so." 

The  girl  went  on  arranging  the  table. 

"  I  say  I  w'u'dn't  blush  so  !  There's  no  call 
fer  blushin'  so  ev'ry  time  yuh  set  eyes  on  him. 
Yuh'll  have  the  whole  camp  a-noticin'  it.  Your 
face's  like  fire.  It  'u'd  be  different  'f  he'd  spoke 
up.  But  he  ain't  yet.  Has  he  ? " 

The  girl  was  silent. 

"  I  say,  has  he  ?  Why  don't  yuh  answer  me  ? 
Aigh?" 

"  Oh,  mother ! "  exclaimed  the  girl,  in  sheer 
bitterness  of  soul.  "  If  you  ever  ask  me  that 
again  I'll  go  away  and  never  come  back." 

"Oh,  yuh  will,  aigh?"  Mrs.  Brown  had  a 
frightened  look ;  but  she  kept  right  on  nagging. 
"That's  a  pretty  way  to  talk  to  your  mother. 
I'd  like  to  know  'f  I  ain't  a  right  to  find  out  his 
intentions.  I  can't  open  my  mouth  but  yuh  go 
to  flar'n'  up  like  a  sulphur  match.  He's  so  'n 
love  with  yuh  he  can't  keep  his  eyes  off  o'  yuh, 
an'  I  don't  see  why  he  don't  speak  up.  I  don't 
go  much  on  men  that  make  love  an'  make  love, 
an'  never  speak  up.  First  thing  yuh  know  he'll 
up  an'  leave  an'  go  back  East,  an'  the  Goshen 
Browns'll  go  round  a-tee-heein'  b'cause  yuh  let 
him  slip  through  your  fingers  —  " 

Sidonie's  face  turned  white.     She  went  sud- 

-      22 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

denly  out  of  the  room.  Her  respect  for  her 
mother  was  beautiful,  and  her  patience  great ; 
but  this  was  unbearable. 

After  an  early  supper  that  evening  Gilder 
went  into  the  little  study. 

"The  summer  is  going,"  he  said,  "and  you 
have  never  taken  me  to  the  place  where  the 
orchids  grow.  Let  us  go  to-night.  The  moon 
rises  at  nine." 

She  rose  instantly.  "It's  just  the  night  to 
go,"  she  said,  putting  on  her  hat.  "We  will  go 
down  the  skid-road.  The  men  are  still  at  work. 
They've  been  falling  all  day.  If  we  hurry  we 
may  see  the  last  tree  come  down." 

They  walked  as  rapidly  as  the  greased  skids 
would  permit,  and  were  soon  down  in  the  forest. 
Presently  they  heard  shouting  as  if  in  warning. 
A  voice  yelled  — "All  right.  Go  it!"  Then 
there  was  silence,  broken  only  by  an  axe  beating 
through  the  heart  of  a  tree  in  regular,  rhythmic 
strokes. 

"We're  just  in  time,"  cried  Sidonie,  joyfully, 
springing  around  a  curve.  A  mighty  fir  was 
ready  to  fall.  Already  there  was  a  toppling 
movement  among  its  highest  boughs.  The  men 
had  all  withdrawn  from  the  place  where  it  was 
expected  to  fall,  save  the  one  who  was  giving 
it  its  last  blow.  They  were  roughly  clad  men. 
Their  flannel  shirts  were  rolled  back  from  their 

23 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

brown,  hairy  breasts.  Each  stood  with  knotted 
hands  on  his  hips,  resting  one  knee,  like  a  horse. 
They  breathed  grandly,  with  swelling  throats 
and  chests.  They  wore  their  rude  clothing  with 
strong,  unconscious  grace. 

Every  man  took  off  his  hat  as  Sidonie  flashed 
into  view,  with  a  gleam  of  sudden  pleasure  in 
his  eyes.  Two  or  three  beat  down  the  tall 
brakes  with  their  feet  to  make  a  place  for  her. 
She  glided  into  it,  smiling.  Gilder  stood  close 
beside  her.  Then  all  eyes  were  turned  upon 
the  tree. 

There  was  a  last  bjow,  a  warning  shout,  and 
the  chopper  sprang  backward.  There  was  intense 
stillness  as  the  slim  top  started  downward  ;  then 
a  soft  noise,  like  the  far-off  shivering  of  the  sea 
as  it  comes  up  the  tide-lands,  swelling  gradually 
louder  and  louder,  as  the  tree  cut  its  way  swiftly 
through  the  air  and  the  tops  of  other  trees.  At 
the  last  it  was  like  the  roar  of  surf  on  rocky 
cliffs.  It  reached  the  earth  with  a  crash  of 
thunder  that  went  echoing  away  in  long  waves 
of  sound  through  miles  of  forest,  and  laid  its 
beautiful  tip  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  from 
the  spot  where  it  had  stood  for  a  thousand 
years,  with  the  sap  throbbing  out  of  its  severed 
veins. 

Shouting  and  jesting,  two  or  three  men  leaped 
upon  the  prostrate  body,  and  soon  the  saws  went 
24 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

rasping   through    the   bark,    feeling   their   way 
roughly  to  the  wood  underneath. 

"  Let  us  go  on,"  said  Gilder.  They  turned 
into  a  narrow  path  or  trail  that  led  into  the 
deeper  forest.  They  were  followed  by  the  clear 
ring  of  an  axe  beating  its  way  into  another  tree. 
But  soon  this  sound  and  all  others  grew  fainter, 
until  they  ceased  altogether.  The  early  sunset 
was  upon  them,  and  already  the  sweet  coolness 
of  evening  had  sprung  up  about  them. 


It  was  midnight.  For  three  hours  they  had 
been  lost  in  the  forest,  wandering  aimlessly. 
Now  they  had  paused  in  a  dim  glen  into  which 
the  moonbeams  struggled  faintly.  Their  feet 
were  in  a  carpet  of  soft  velvet  moss.  They 
were  surrounded  by  great  trees,  from  whose 
branches  long  fragments  of  moss  drooped.  Here 
and  there  glimmered  a  dappled,  ghostly  alder. 

"  It  is  like  the  place,"  said  the  girl,  with  a 
troubled  sigh ;  "  but  not  it.  We  may  as  well 
rest  a  while.  I  am  very  tired." 

Gilder  trembled.  "  It  is  a  beautiful  place," 
he  said,  "  but  I  think  we  ought  to  go  on.  Lean 
on  me,  and  we  will  walk  slowly." 

"But  what  good  will  it  do?"  she  said.  She 
leaned  on  him  like  a  child,  and  they  walked  a 

25 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

little  way.  "  We  may  only  wander  farther  from 
home.  It  will  be  better  to  sit  down  and  rest 
till  daylight.  I'm  so  tired." 

"  We  ought  to  go  on,"  said  Gilder,  uncertainly. 

"  You're  afraid  they  will  be  uneasy  about 
us,"  she  said.  "They  will  not.  Mother  never 
worries  about  me.  Once  I  was  lost  all  night 
and  she  didn't  worry ;  so,  of  course,  she  will  not 
when  you're  with  me." 

Gilder  was  silent.  She  felt  his  strong,  deep 
breathing. 

"  Let  us  sit  down,"  she  insisted,  gently.  "  The 
moss  is  soft,  and  I'm  so  tired." 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  spread  it  on  the 
moss.  He  sunk  upon  it  and  drew  her  down 
beside  him,  keeping  her  warm  hands  in  his 
palms. 

"You  are  cold,"  she  said ;  "  you  are  trembling." 

"  I  am  not  cold,"  he  answered  her. 

Then  they  were  both  silent.  The  night  was 
very  sweet.  After  a  little  she  said,  low  — 

"  I  am  afraid.     I've  never  been  afraid  before." 

"  Lean  upon  me,"  said  Gilder.  His  voice 
shook  with  tenderness.  "  I  will  take  care  of 
you." 

"I  know,"  she  whispered.  She  knelt  up, 
leaning  her  soft  shoulder  upon  his  breast  and 
turning  her  face  from  him.  "How  sweet  it 
is!" 

26 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

"Aye,'1  said  Gilder,  "it  is  sweet." 

He  pushed  her  sleeve  to  her  elbow  and  stroked 
her  arm  as  a  tender  father  might  have  done  — 
protectingly. 

"You  are  trembling,"  she  repeated. 

He  had  loved  her  passionately  for  three 
months,  yet  had  scarcely  touched  her  hand.  It 
was  small  wonder,  he  thought,  that  he  should 
tremble. 

They  sat  then  with  the  pulsing  stillness  of  the 
forest  upon  them.  Neither  spoke.  He  pressed 
his  hand,  still  with  that  caressing  movement, 
upon  her  arm.  His  lips  were  sunken  in  silent, 
deep  ecstasy  in  her  fragrant  hair. 

Sometimes  there  arises  a  moment  of  great 
and  exalted  passion  that  changes  a  whole  life. 

Only  the  day  before  Gilder  had  decided  finally 
that  he  must  leave  the  girl  he  loved.  A  letter 
had  "come  from  Constance.  He  had  laid  it  away 
unopened.  When  he  answered  it  he  would  tell 
her  he  was  coming  home  to  marry  her.  But 
first  he  would  have  a  few  short  hours  of  happi 
ness —  a  few  short  hours  with  Sidonie.  Only 
to  be  near  her,  to  look  at  her,  to  feel  her  gown 
touch  him  as  she  passed  —  that  was  all  he  asked. 
He  had  foreseen  nothing  of  this  exquisite  con 
tact  that  was  to  send  drops  of  delicious  fire 
thrilling  along  his  veins.  She  was  a  child,  and 
he  was  her  protector ;  she  was  an  angel,  and  he 
27 


A   FOREST    ORCHID 

reverenced  her  —  but  she  was  a  woman,  too,  and 
he  loved  her. 

"Do  you  hear  something  —  some  soft  sound?" 
she  whispered,  presently. 

"  I  hear  the  fir-needles  falling,"  he  answered 
her. 

She  sighed  and  moved  a  little,  but  not  farther 
away. 

After  a  few  moments  she  said  —  "  Do  you  hear 
something  like  a  step  ? " 

"It  is  Pan  passing,"  he  said.  "We  shall  hear 
his  horn  presently." 

There  was  another  sweet  silence.  Then  she 
whispered  —  "Do  you  hear  something  breathing 
—  or  some  one  ? " 

"  Only  you,"  he  said.  His  voice  shook.  He 
put  his  arm  around  her  in  a  swift,  uncontrollable 
rush  of  passionate  tenderness.  She  sunk  closer 
to  him,  innocently. 

"  You  are  still  trembling,"  she  said.  "  I  know 
you  are  cold." 

"No,  I  am  not  cold." 

"  Then  why  do  you  tremble  ?   Are  you  afraid  ? " 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Of  what  ? " 

"Of  love!     Sidonie  — " 

She  turned  quickly  upon  his  breast. 

"I  love  you  ...  I  love  you,"  he  breathed. 
His  lips  were  upon  hers.     "  Sidonie  —  " 
28 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

"I  know."  Her  arms  went  in  sweet  abandon 
about  his  throat.  Her  words  were  like  the  notes 
of  a  love-bird  when  it  is  alone  with  its  mate. 
"And  I  love  you." 

Oh,  the  deep  silences  of  the  midnight  forest ! 
In  those  deeps  there  are  silences  in  sound. 
Everything  speaks:  the  trees  to  the  violet  heaven 
that  stoops  to  them,  the  grasses  to  the  wind 
that  lays  its  cool  length  upon  them.  In  marsh 
places  the  tall  green  swords  of  the  tules  clash 
softly  together.  The  broad  palms  of  the  vine- 
maple  clasp  and  cling  together ;  the  velvet  tops 
of  the  firs  move  rhythmically  to  and  fro  ;  the 
pines  whisper.  The  murmuring  of  countless 
insects  swells  into  one  harmonious  choir  —  but 
all  so  soft,  so  far  away !  It  is  all  sound,  and  it 
is  all  silence.  One  hears  the  fall  of  the  tiniest 
needle  on  the  grass,  the  caressing  pressure  of 
one  leaf  upon  another,  the  curve  of  each  blade 
of  grass  —  if  one  knows  how  to  hear  God's  di- 
vinest  music. 

After  a  long  time  Gilder  spoke.  His  tone 
was  that  of  a  man  who  stands,  rapt  and  exalted, 
lifted  out  of  himself,  on  some  noble  mountain 
height  —  the  world,  with  its  little  fevers  and 
passions,  its  petty  hopes  and  ambitions,  beneath 
his  feet. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  "we  are  in  Arcadie  ;  but 
we  must  go  out  from  it." 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

"We  cannot,"  she  answered;  "it  is  ours 
forever." 

"  Dearest,  dearest !  You  break  my  heart ! 
How  can  I  tell  you  now?" 

"You  may  tell  me  anything  —  now." 

He  pressed  her  to  him  with  passionate,  de 
spairing  tenderness. 

" Dearest "  —  his  voice  trembled  —  "I  have 
tried  to  keep  away  from  this  hour ;  I  knew  it 
could  not  last." 

"  It  will  last,"  she  said. 

"  Sidonie,  Sidonie !  I  cannot  marry  you." 
The  words  struggled  from  him. 

"I  knew  that,"  said  the  girl,  simply.  "I 
have  felt  it  all  the  summer.  But  it  does  not 
matter.  It  cannot  take  this  hour  from  us !  It 
cannot  take  our  love  from  us !  What  can  we 
ask  that  would  be  greater  than  only  to  have 
loved  each  other  ?  It  is  our  hearts  and  our 
souls  that  love  ;  the  world  cannot  separate  them. 
Wherever  we  go,  this  hour  shall  go  with  us. 
There  is  nothing  we  may  not  endure  now." 

He  leaned  his  mouth  down  upon  hers,  and 
pressed  it  there,  motionless,  and  prayed  silently 
—  with  a  choke  in  his  throat  that  must  have 
shaken  the  very  angels. 

So  they  sat  until  presently  there  came  a  white 
glimmer  along  the  tops  of  the  trees. 

"It  is  the  dawn,"  breathed  the  girl,  stirring 

30 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

happily,  as  a  bird  does  in  its  nest.  "Now  I 
can  find  the  way.  I  know  where  the  East  is." 

There  followed  a  wretched  "week  for  Gilder. 
He  kept  away  from  Sidonie.  He  watched  her 
going  quietly  on  with  her  work,  pale  but  se 
rene.  There  was  an  unfortunate  girl  with  a 
young  child  in  a  shack  near  by.  Her  parents 
had  cast  her  off,  and  no  woman  would  go  near 
her.  No  woman  save  the  one  Gilder  loved ! 
She  went  constantly,  day  and  night,  to  care  for 
her  and  the  child.  Meeting  her  sometimes  on 
these  errands  of  divine  mercy,  Gilder  was  struck 
by  the  new  look  of  austerity  on  her  face.  At 
such  times  he  could  have  fallen  at  her  feet  and 
kissed  the  hem  of  her  gown.  She  reminded 
him  so  keenly  of  the  woman  she  had  most 
wished  to  be  —  the  mother  of  Christ. 

At  last  a  night  came  when  he  nerved  himself 
to  write  to  Constance.  It  was  a  warm,  purple 
autumn  night.  The  sun  had  gone  down  in  a 
crimson  haze,  the  twilight  had  deepened  to 
dusk.  He  sat  on  his  door-step  watching  the 
light  in  Sidonie's  window,  over  which  the  vines 
were  still  green. 

Crickets  chirped  in  the  new  growth  of  ferns 
that  had  sprung  up  since  the  late  rain.  A 
night-hawk  sunk  upon  the  air,  uttering  its 
mournful,  musical  note.  It  was  Saturday  night, 
and  all  the  unmarried  men  had  gone  to  What- 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

com  to  spear  salmon ;  every  one  else  had  re 
tired.  Only  that  one  little  path  of  light  glim 
mered  across  the  darkness,  leading,  Gilder 
thought,  to  heaven  —  the  heaven  from  which 
he  was  shut  out  forever! 

He  rose  suddenly  and  went  in,  closing  the 
door.  His  lamp  was  lighted.  He  flung  him 
self  into  a  chair  and  seized  his  pen.  His  lips 
were  set  together,  hard. 

Then  his  eyes  fell  upon  Constance's  letter  that 
had  lain,  unopened,  a  week  on  his  table.  He 
opened  it  mechanically  — 


Ten  minutes  later  he  was  groping  like  a  blind 
man  to  Sidonie's  door.  Before  he  reached  it 
she  came  out,  on  her  way  to  the  mother  and 
child.  As  he  met  her  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  drew  her  close  —  close. 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said,  sweetly  and  gravely. 
"The  child  needs  me." 

"  I  need  you,  too,"  he  whispered,  in  a  shaken 
voice.  "  Let  me  go  with  you.  I  have  the  right. 
There  is  no  reason  now  why  I  should  not  go  with 
you  to  life's  end." 

He  felt  the  quick,  responsive  pressure  of  her 
hands  then. 

"  Is  there  not  ?  "  she  said. 

3* 


A    FOREST    ORCHID 

"  Dearest,  trust  me.  I  do  not  choose  to  tell 
you  what  was  between  us.  There  is  nothing 
now.  Will  you  trust  me  without  knowing  more 
than  that?" 

She  sunk  upon  his  breast  in  her  sweet, 
childish  way. 

"Why  not?"  she  said.  "It  is  so  foolish  to 
wish  to  know  little  things.  That  is  for  little 
natures.  I  wish  to  know  only  great  things; 
and  the  greatest  of  all  I  already  know  —  that  we 
love  each  other." 

Then  fell  upon  them  one  of  the  silences  that 
God  loves  —  because  there  is  nothing  like  them 
outside  of  heaven. 


33 


'MANDY'S   ORGAN 


'MANDY'S   ORGAN 

Mrs.  Bentley  lifted  up  her  voice.  "  Pig-oo-ee ! 
Pig-oo-ee !  Where's  that  other  pig  gone  to  ? 
If  there's  anything  as  aggravating  as  a  pig, 
I'd  like  to  know  what  it  is !  They  don't  even 
know  enough  to  come  an'  git  fed." 

She  poured  a  pailful  of  vegetable  and  fruit 
parings  into  a  long  trough  and  stood  back, 
watching  the  animals  with  grim  satisfaction. 

"That's  right.  Fall  all  over  yourselves  to 
git  into  the  troth  !  No  wonder  you're  called 
pigs.  Well,  I  guess  there's  a  plenty  swill  for 
all  o'  you.  I  wonder  why  'Mandy  don't  feed 
them  chickens ;  it's  high  time  they  was  fed. 
'Mandy  !  Hoo-oo-hoo  !  You  'Mandy  !  " 

"  Yes,  maw.     What  d'  you  want  ? " 

A  girl  about  seventeen  years  of  age  came  out 
of  the  kitchen  door,  and  stood  looking  at  her 
mother.  Her  hands  were  on  her  comely  hips. 
Mrs.  Bentley  was  twenty  steps  away,  and  the 
pigs  were  making  so  much  noise  she  had  to 
raise  her  voice  to  a  disagreeable,  rasping  tone. 

"  What  do  I  want  ?  Why,  I  want  to  know 
why  you  don't  feed  them  chickens !  That's 
what  I  want.  Step  around  lively,  now ;  an' 

37 


don't  fergit  it's  Christmas  eve,  an'  a  lot  of 
extry  chores  to  be  done.  You  ac'  as  if  you 
didn't  care  whuther  the  minister  had  anything 
for  dinner  to-morrow,  or  not." 

"I  don't  care."  The  girl  spoke  with  sullen 
emphasis.  She  came  into  the  lane  after  a  few 
moments  had  passed,  and  stood  near  her  mother. 
Her  apron,  gathered  up  in  her  left  hand,  was 
full  of  wheat ;  with  her  right,  she  began  scatter 
ing  it  on  the  hard  ground. 

"  Mebbe  you  think  it's  fun  to  have  ministers 
an'  their  wives  an'  a  lot  of  childern  to  cook  an' 
work  for  on  Christmas,"  she  said;  "but  I  don't. 
I  wish  Christmas  'u'd  never  come  —  for  all  the 
good  it  does  us.  Work  an'  slave  for  comp'ny 
to  stuff  theirselves  !  Maria  Quackenbush's 
paw's  got  her  a  new  org'n,"  she  added,  sud 
denly.  A  glow  of  eagerness  came  across  her 
face,  but  faded  almost  instantly. 

"Has  he?"  said  Mrs.  Bentley,  stolidly,  watch 
ing  the  chickens. 

"  It's  got  twenty-four  stops,  maw." 

"What  has?" 

"Why,  the  org'n  Maria's  paw  got  her  for 
Christmas." 

The  elder  woman  set  her  lips  together  with 
a  kind  of  habitual  grimness. 

"  I  guess  it  won't  give  out  no  better  music 
than  one  with  twenty-two,"  she  said. 

38 


"No,"  said  'Mandy,  with  a  sigh  of  indif 
ference.  "  Oh,  maw  !  "  she  added,  suddenly, 
with  a  very  passion  of  longing  in  her  tone. 
"Do  you  think  paw'll  ever  git  me  one  for 
Christmas?" 

"  Land  sakes  !     One  what  ?  " 

"Org'n." 

"  I  do'  know,"  said  her  mother.  "  Looks  sort 
of  like  snow,  don't  it  ?  Which  of  them  pullets 
you  going  to  kill  for  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  do'  know.     Any  of  'em's  fat  enough." 

A  dull  grayness  lowered  upon  the  farm.  The 
wind  whistled  shrilly,  as  it  came  around  the 
corner  of  the  big  barn  ;  it  caught  some  loose 
locks  of  the  girl's  hair,  and  carried  them  across 
her  neck.  A  horse  came  running  up  from  the 
lower  pasture,  and  looked  over  the  high  bars, 
neighing  and  pawing  impatiently.  Far  away, 
down  near  the  river,  sounded  the  kingle-kingle 
of  a  bell. 

"There  comes  the  cows,"  said  Mrs.  Bentley. 
She  sighed  unconsciously.  It  was  a  sigh  of 
resignation,  however ;  she  had  been  a  farmer's 
daughter  before  she  became  a  farmer's  wife. 
"There!"  she  exclaimed,  triumphantly,  as  a 
cock  crew.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  going 
to  storm?  You  can  tell  it  by  the  mournful 
sound  of  that  rooster's- voice.  Oh,  say,  'Mandy  ! 
Dick  Underwood  got  home  last  week  from  town 

39 


to  spend  Christmas  an'  New  Year.  I  just  heard 
it  while  you  was  out  in  the  fruit-house." 

"  I  heard  it  yesterday,"  said  the  girl.  She  did 
not  stir  or  lift  her  eyes,  but  a  faint  color  came 
into  her  face,  and  a  pulse  in  her  throat  began  to 
beat  uncomfortably. 

Her  mother  gave  her  a  keen,  searching  look. 

"  I  guess  he'll  most  likely  be  going  to  Maria's 
to-morrow  a-seeing  her  new  org'n,"  she  said, 
looking  away. 

"  Yes,  I  guess,"  said  the  girl.  After  a  little 
hesitation,  she  added  —  "Maria's  maw  got  her 
an  offul  pretty  new  dress." 

"  She  did  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bentley.  She  had  an 
interested  look.  "  What's  it  like  ? " 

"  It's  a  sort  of  brown  and  gold  stripe  —  camel's 
hair.  It's  offul  pretty,"  she  added,  with  a  kind 
of  bitter  reluctance. 

Mrs.  Bentley  was  awed  into  silence  for  a 
moment  in  imagination  of  Miss  Quackenbush's 
splendor ;  then  she  gave  a  little  sniff  of  contempt. 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  where  them  Quackenbush's 
git  so  much  money  to  spend  on  foolishness  ! 
They  got  just  the  same  for  their  potatoes  that 
we  did  —  an'  they  didn't  have  any  bigger  crop,  / 
know.  An'  they  ain't  sold  their  hawgs  yet.  It 
beats  me  to  see  where  they  git  their  finery  at. 
Well,  there's  one  thing  mighty  sure :  they 
needn't  a  one  of  'em  think  she's  going  to  look 
40 


'MANDY'S  ORGAN 


any  better  in  all  her  new  duds  than  you'll  look 
in  that  peacock  blue  o'  your  'n." 

"Old  as  the  hills,"  said  the  girl.  Her  lips 
quivered,  and  there  was  an  undertone  of  tears  in 
her  voice.  Her  mother  looked  at  her  in  mute 
sympathy. 

"  Maria  Quackenbush  ain't  got  no  such  figger 
's  your  'n,"  she  said,  presently,  taking  stock  of 
the  girl's  good  points.  "  Nor  no  such  hair,  an' 
she  don't  know  how  to  do  it  up  like  you  do, 
neither.  I  don't  suppose  he'll  take  a  notion  to 
her." 

"Who  will?"  There  was  a  conscious  look 
on  the  girl's  face. 

"  Why,  Dick  Underwood.  She'd  talk  the  legs 
off  of  an  iron  pot." 

"Who's  a-caring  whether  Dick  Underwood 
takes  a  notion  to  her  or  not  ? "  cried  'Mandy, 
with  a  great  show  of  scorn  to  conceal  her  hurt. 
"  He's  welcome  to,  if  he  wants.  Nobocly'll 
hender  him,  I  reckon.  I  know  /won't." 

After  a  moment  she  added  with  stifled  bitter 
ness  —  "  She  got  her  a  pair  of  gloves  to  match." 

"She  did!"  Mrs.  Bentley's  expression  was 
almost  fierce.  "Just  as  if  that  pair  o'  gray  ones 
she  got  her  in  the  spring  wasn't  good  enough  ! 
They  must  of  been  thinking  that  dressing  her 
up  'u'd  help  her  face  an'  figger  out.  Her  face 
'u'd  stop  an  eight-day  clock !  An'  her  figger 


ain't  much  better.     Lean  !     Have  you  got  them 
chickens  fed  ? " 

"Yes."  'Mandy  shook  the  last  grains  of 
wheat  from  her  apron.  Her  face  was  flushed, 
and  tears  were  struggling  to  get  into  her  eyes 
now. 

As  she  turned  toward  the  house  there  was  a 
clatter  of  unevenly  galloping  horses  on  the  hard 
ground.  Up  to  the  gate  dashed  Maria  Quacken- 
bush  and  Dick  Underwood.  They  were  laughing 
noisily,  in  high  humor,  and  there  was  much  color 
in  their  faces,  testifying  to  reckless  riding. 

"Whoa!"  cried  Maria,  with  spirit.  "Whoa, 
I  tell  you  !  Hello,  'Mandy  !  How-d'-you-do,  Mis' 
Bentley  ?  My !  I  must  be  a  sight !  Guess  my 
hair's  all  down  my  back,  ain't  it  ?  When  you 
git  this  horse  warmed  up  there's  no  making  him 
go  slow.  It  ain't  every  girl  that  could  ride  him 
—  aigh,  Mr.  Underwood?" 

She  struck  playfully  at  his  horse  with  her 
whip,  causing  him  to  start  violently. 

"Won't  you  git  off  an*  come  in  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Bentley,  with  cold  and  unmistakable  disapproval. 
"  How  are  you,  Mr.  Underwood  ?  Gracious  ! 
How  you  have  changed  !  'Mandy  !  " 

'Mandy  came  to  the  big  gate,  blushing  and 
looking  rather  shy  and  awkward.  The  young 
man  jumped  off  his  horse,  and  shook  hands  with 
her  through  the  gate. 

42 


MANDY  S    ORGAN 

"  I've  only  changed  in  looks,"  he  cried,  looking 
at  'Mandy  with  shining  eyes.  "  No,  we  can.'t 
come  in  to-night.  We  promised  Mrs.  Quacken- 
bush  we'd  be  back  early  to  supper." 

"  We're  a-going  to  have  some  music  an'  sing 
ing,"  said  Maria,  loftily.  "I've  got  a  new  organ 
for  Christmas,  'Mandy." 

"Yes;  I  heard,"  said  'Mandy,  faintly. 

"  Got  twenty-four  stops  an'  two  knee-swells  — 
a  loud  an'  a  soft.  One  stop's  a  trembly  one,  to 
imitate  the  human  voice.  It's  got  a  high  back, 
an'  a  lookin'-glass,  an'  places  for  lamps  an'  vases. 
Can't  you  come  over  to-night  ?  " 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  said  'Mandy.  The  color 
had  all  gone  out  of  her  face. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Bentley,  with  a  hard  look  at 
Maria ;  "  she'll  have  to  do  all  the  work  to-night. 
I'm  a-going  to  town." 

"Why,  maw!"  exclaimed  'Mandy,  in  amaze 
ment.  "  Are  you,  honest  ?  What  for  ?  " 

"  To  get  some  things  for  to-morrow  dinner. 
I'm  all  out." 

There  was  a  look  of  swift  resolution,  and  more 
than  a  suggestion  of  stubbornness,  on  her  face ; 
and  a  cold  glitter,  as  of  steel,  in  her  eyes  —  espe 
cially  when  she  looked  at  Maria. 

"  I  wish  you  could  come,"  said  that  young  lady, 
airily,  to  'Mandy,  flicking  her  horse's  ears  with 
her  whip.  "  I've  got  lots  to  tell  you  "  —  simper- 

43 


MANDY  S    ORGAN 

ing — "an'  just  piles  to  show  you.  I've  got  a 
new  dress  that'll  make  your  mouth  water ! " 

"  Hunh  !  "  sniffed  Mrs.  Bentley,  tossing  her 
head,  contemptuously. 

"It's  brown  an'  gold  camel's-hair.  Fine — my! 
There  ain't  anything  like  it  around  here,  I  can 
tell  you.  It  cost  a  dollar  an'  a  quarter  a  yard  !  " 

"  Has  your  paw  sold  his  hawgs  yet  ? "  asked 
Mrs.  Bentley,  with  sudden  and  startling  signifi 
cance.  But  evidently  nothing  could  shake  Miss 
Quackenbush's  self-satisfaction  to-day.  She  had 
her  eyes  on  high  stars. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  she  replied,  returning 
Mrs.  Bentley's  intense  gaze  with  placidity.  "  An' 
I've  got  a  new  pair  o'  gloves  to  match,  'Mandy ; 
the  very  latest !  Guess  you  better  come,  after 
all.  Well,  we'll  have  to  be  going,  Mr.  Under 
wood,  or  we'll  be  late."  She  gave  him  a  boldly 
coquettish  glance  from  under  her  long  lashes  — 
whereat  poor  'Mandy  grew  paler  and  her  mother's 
face  assumed  a  fairly  purplish  tinge.  "  Good-by  ! 
Hope  you'll  have  a  good  time  to-morrow.  / 
mean  to." 

"Good  night,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a 
lingering  look  through  the  gate  at  the  sweet, 
pale  face  with  its  wide,  hurt  eyes.  "  I  wish 
you  a  very  happy  Christmas." 

"Good  night,"  said  'Mandy,  with  a  poor  smile 
that  was  scarcely  a  smile  at  all. 

44 


MANDY  S    ORGAN 

"  Now,  you  go  right  in  the  house,  an'  do  up 
all  the  work,  'Mandy,"  said  Mrs.  Bentley,  when 
they  were  gone.  She  took  up  a  slop-pail  and 
walked  with  quick,  resolute  strides.  Each  step 
seemed  to  say  — "  I've  made  up  my  mind ! 
I've  made  up  my  mind!"  "You  tell  Peter  to 
hitch  up  Dock  an'  Charley  to  the  spring-wag'n, 
while  I'm  getting  my  dress  on.  I  guess  they'll 
have  to  mend  up  that  whupple-tree  with  a  halter 
strap.  Now,  you  hurry  up,  too,  so  's  I  can  git 
off  before  your  father  comes  back  —  I  don't 
want  him  to  try  to  stop  me,  because  the  old 
Harry  hisself  couldn't  stop  me  to-day  !  I  won't 
be  home  till  to-morrow  morning.  I'll  put  up  at 
Mis'  Huntley's.  Hurry  up!" 

Too  heavy  with  her  own  reflections  to  give 
more  than  a  passing  thought  to  her  mother's 
sudden  resolution,  and  eager  to  get  her  white 
face  away  from  those  search-light  eyes,  'Mandy 
gladly  obeyed. 

Twenty  minutes  later  Mrs.  Bentley  came  from 
the  house  and  crossed  the  lane  to  the  barn.  She 
was  "  dressed  for  town."  She  wore  a  black 
hat,  with  a  tall  wing  standing  up  stiffly  at  the 
side,  and  a  long  plush  cloak,  worn  shiny  at  the 
elbows. 

"  I'll  show  them  Quackenbush's  if  they  can 
walk  over  my  girl,"  she  was  saying.  Her  lips 
were  pressed  together  hard.  There  was  an 

45 


MANDY  S    ORGAN 

ominous  look  in  her  eyes.  "  Their  camel's-hair 
dresses  an'  their  latest  style  gloves !  No  such 
goods  around  here,  aigh  ? "  —  She  was  mim 
icking  Maria's  tone,  unconsciously —  "A  dol 
lar  an'  a  quarter  a  yard,  aigh  ?  Well,  I'll  beat 
that  all  hollow,  an'  I  won't  go  into  nobody's 
debt  to  do  it,  neither.  I'll  show  them  Quacken- 
bush's!  'Mandy's  paw'll  never  git  stirred  up  to 
the  pitch  o'  gitting  her  an  org'n  ;  an'  what's  the 
sense  of  my  a-keeping  that  hunderd  dollars  to 
bury  myself  with  ?  Guess  I'll  git  buried  decent, 
somehow.  If  the  Lord  sees  every  swallow  fall, 
I  reckon  I'm  big  enough  for  Him  to  see  me." 
She  laughed,  not  irreverently,  but  with  reluctant 
humor.  "An'  them  enticing  Dick  Underwood 
over  there  on  the  strength  of  a  new  org'n  with 
twenty-four  stops  an'  two  knee-swells !  "  Her 
tone  was  bitter  now,  indeed.  "/'//  show  'em !  " 
she  concluded,  fiercely. 

She  climbed  into  the  wagon  over  the  front 
wheel,  and  gathered  up  the  reins  with  decision. 

"  Git  up ! "  she  said,  in  a  mood  not  to  be 
trifled  with. 

As  she  passed  the  kitchen,  she  looked  in,  but 
'Mandy  was  not  to  be  seen.  The  ominous  look 
deepened  on  Mrs.  Bentley's  face.  The  wind 
whistled  around  a  corner  and  brought  with  it 
the  first  flurry  of  snow.  She  lowered  her  head 
and  faced  it  defiantly. 

46 


MANDY S    ORGAN 

The  velvet  whiteness  lay  on  the  ground  to  a 
depth  of  six  inches  when  Mrs.  Bentley  drove, 
with  a  flourish  of  triumph,  into  the  barnyard  on 
Christmas  morning.  'Mandy  ran  out,  bare 
headed.  She  was  still  pale.  Her  eyes  looked 
as  if  she  had  not  slept. 

"  Oh,  maw,"  she  cried,  "  what  you  got 
there?" 

"  Stop  a-hollering  ! "  said  her  mother,  sternly. 
"  It's  a  new  org'n  for  you.  It's  got  twenty- 
eight  stops  —  an'  three  knee-swells  !" 

"Oh,  maw,"  said  'Mandy,  completely  over 
come.  Then  she  gasped  out  —  "  You're  a-hol 
lering  yourself !  " 

"An'  a  bevel  glass  in  the  middle,  an'  a  bevel 
panel  on  both  sides ;  an'  two  big  pedals  an'  two 
little  ones  ;  an'  — " 

"Oh,  maw,  what's  the  third  knee-swell 
for  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  what  it's  for,  an'  I  don't  care. 
It's  there,  an'  I  just  want  to  see  Maria  Quacken- 
bush  when  she  gits  her  eyes  on  it.  I  guess 
I  can  holler  if  I  want  to.  I've  showed  them 
Quackenbush's !  I've  got  a  dress  for  you  that 
cost  a  dollar  an'  a  half  a  yard  —  an'  two  pair  o' 
gloves  to  match  !  " 

"Oh,  maw,"  quavered  'Mandy,  "you're  a-hol 
lering  awful ! " 

"An'  Dick    Underwood's    coming  to  dinner, 

47 


ORGAN 


an'  to  stay  the  evening,  to  see  the  new  org'n  an' 
things!  An'  he  asked  me  if  I  thought  you  liked 
him  the  way  he  does  you  !  So  if  I  ain't  showed 
them  Quackenbush's,  I'd  like  to  know  who  has! 
An'  I  guess  I  can  holler  if  I  want  to  !  " 


48 


THE    LORD'S   PRAYER    DRINKIN' 
GLASS 


THE   LORD'S    PRAYER   DRINKIN' 
GLASS 

"What  you  got  there  ?"  said  Mrs.  Ganong. 

The  hired  girl  went  forward  timidly.  There 
was  a  look  that  was  both  appealing  and  proud 
on  her  face.  She  held  something  stiffly  in  her 
hand. 

"  It's  a  Lord's  Prayer  drinkin'  glass,"  she  said, 
piously. 

"It's  a  — what?" 

"A  Lord's  Prayer  drinkin'  glass." 

"A  —  Lord's  —  Prayer  —  drinkin'  glass  !  " 
Mrs.  Ganong  began  fumbling  around  for  her 
spectacles.  "  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  it's  got  the  Lord's  Prayer  all  on  it,  ev'ry 
word.  I  just  happened  to  see  it  down  to  '  Levy's 
Fair,'  an'  I  got  it  to  make  you  a  present  of." 

"  Oh,  h'm,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Ganong,  who  never 
prayed.  "  Where's  my  specticles  at  ?  It's  reel 
clever  of  you,  Prudence,  I'm  sure." 

"Here's  your  specs,  Mis'  Ganong.  It  pretty 
near  covers  the  hull  glass.  There  ain't  a  single 
word  left  out.  Wait  —  just  let  me  read  it  all  over, 
to  be  sure." 


The  girl  held  the  glass  close  to  her  near-sighted 
eyes,  and  read  the  prayer  off  slowly  and  impres 
sively,  holding  out  one  hand,  with  the  fingers 
spread  stiffly  apart,  like  a  country  preacher. 
When  she  came  to  the  words  "  Forgive  us  our 
trespasses  as  we  forgive  them  who  trespass  against 
us,"  she  paused. 

"They've  put  that  in  great  big  letters,"  she 
said.  "  I  guess  it's  about  the  most  important 
thing  in  the  hull  Bible." 

"  Hunh  !  "  said  Mrs.  Ganong. 

The  girl  read  on.  When  she  had  solemnly  said, 
"  Forever  and  ever,  amen,"  she  laid  the  glass 
reverently  in  Mrs.  Ganong's  lap. 

That  lady  lifted  it  gingerly  and  inspected  it 
through  her  glasses. 

"  Hum  —  yes,"  she  said  at  last,  handing  it  back 
to  the  girl.  "  It's  reel  clever  of  you,  Prudence, 
to  make  me  a  present  of  such  a  nice  drinkin' 
glass.  I'm  just  as  thankful  as  can  be,  I'm  sure. 
Hum  — where  did  you  say  you  got  it  at  ? " 

"Down  at  'Levy's  Fair,'  clear  down  on  the 
viaduc'.  The  wind  was  blowin'  like  ev'rything; 
I  could  hardly  keep  my  feet.  As  soon's  I  see  it, 
I  thought,  '  Oh,  I'll  make  Mis'  Ganong  a  present 
of  it.'  I'd  of  got  you  two  of  'em,  but  this  was  the 
only  one  left." 

"  One's  a  plenty,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Ganong, 
with  unnecessary  haste.  "  It's  offtil  clever  of 

52 


GLASS 

you  to  give  me  one.  You  hadn't  ought  to  of 
done  it." 

"  I've  been  wantin'  to  give  you  somethin'  nice 
for  a  long  spell."  There  was  a  proud  shine  in  the 
girl's  eyes.  "  You've  been  so  good  to  me.  So 
as  soon's  I  see  this,  I  cried  right  out  to  myself, 
'My  !  if  I  hunt  the  hull  earth  over,  I  never' d  find 
a  thing  as  handsome  as  that,'  so  I  went  right  in, 
an'  up  an'  got  it." 

She  went  out  of  the  room  with  a  quick,  high 
step,  and  set  the  glass  away  carefully  in  the  china- 
closet. 

Mrs.  Ganong's  face  was  a  study.  She  sat  per 
fectly  still,  looking  out  the  window.  At  last  she 
said,  "A — Lord's — Prayer — drinkin' glass !  I'd 
as  soon  of  had  a  bicycle  with  an  alumni  rim,  or 
tire,  whichever  it  is.  I'd  as  soon  think  o'  climbin' 
onto  one  o'  them  heathenish  things  as  to  drink 
out  of  a  Lord's  Prayer  drinkin'  glass."  Her  hard 
lips  unclosed  in  a  wide  smile.  "  Well,  it  can  set 
on  the  top  shelf  o'  the  chany-closet.  I  reckon  I 
needn't  to  begrudge  it  house-room." 

The  room  in  which  Mrs.  Ganong  sat  was  as 
plain  as  herself.  Over  in  one  corner  a  highly 
polished  stove  shone  out  of  a  vast  curve  of  zinc. 
Yards  of  pipe  climbed  the  wall,  making  two  or 
three  elegant  curves  before  it  disappeared  in  a 
little  glistening  circle  of  tin.  The  yellow  majol 
ica  medallions  on  the  stove  sparkled  like  gold, 

53 


THE    LORD'S    PRAYER    DRINKIN*    GLASS 

the  nickel  bars  like  silver.  A  large-flowered 
three-ply  carpet  covered  the  floor.  Mrs.  Ganong 
thought  that  the  greens  and  the  scarlets  in  this 
carpet  were  the  most  beautiful  colors  imagina 
ble.  They  were  certainly  the  most  vivid. 

An  organ  with  yellowed  keys  stood  up  primly 
in  another  corner.  In  exactly  the  middle  of  its 
top  arose  a  white  wax  cross,  bristling  stiffly 
with  ivy-leaves,  under  an  oval  glass  case.  On 
the  wall,  encircled  by  a  frame  made  of  fir-cones, 
was  a  wreath  woven  out  of  locks  of  hair  from 
all  Mrs.  Ganong's  friends  and  relatives.  The 
sun  was  sinking  down  slowly  over  Puget  Sound, 
and  its  long  level  rays  trembled  across  those 
miles  of  satin  water,  and  touched  one  wavy 
lock  of  hair  in  the  cone  frame  till  it  glowed  like 
fire.  Mrs.  Ganong,  glancing  up,  saw  it,  and 
her  face  grew  stern.  At  that  moment  Prudence 
lifted  up  her  sweet  young  voice  in  the  kitchen 
in  a  gush  of  song  : 

"  Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet, 

And  she's  all  the  world  to  me, 
And  for  bonny  Annie  Laurie 
I  would  lay  me  down  and  die." 

Mrs.  Ganong  arose  abruptly  and  closed  the 
door.  Her  lips  moved  convulsively.  She  was 
an  old  woman,  and  years  of  silent  endurance 
had  hardened  her  to  most  things,  but  —  her  only 

54 


THE    LORD'S    PRAYER    DRINKIN*    GLASS 

daughter's  name  had  been  Annie  Laurie,  and 
the  lock  of  hair  that  the  sun  was  now  burnish 
ing  had  been  hers.  Had  been!  She  was  still 
living ;  but  there  was  no  Annie  Laurie  now  for 
Mrs.  Ganong. 

In  a  moment  she  wa«  herself  again.  She  had 
been  taken  by  surprise,  that  was  all.  The 
hired  girl,  or,  for  that  matter,  fifty  hired  girls, 
might  sing  "Annie  Laurie"  now  till  doomsday, 
and  Mrs.  Ganong  would  make  no  sign.  She 
resumed  her  seat  by  the  window,  grim  and 
silent. 

After  a  little  she  said,  "Well,  if  here  don't 
come  father,  lookin'  as  sour  as  swill.  Mad  be 
cause  I  wouldn't  sign  that  deed,  I  guess.  Now 
he'll  go  to  sewin'  on  buttons  an'  darnih'  socks 
for  the  next  two  or  three  days  !  "  She  laughed 
noiselessly.  "Ev'ry  time  he  gets  mad  at  me 
about  anything  he  hunts  up  all  his  old  clo's  an' 
goes  to  sewin'  on  buttons  whether  they  need 
buttons  or  not,  an'  darnin'  socks  that  ain't  got 
any  holes.  I  s'pose  he  thinks  it'll  harrow  my 
feelin's  up  offul." 

She  looked  up  with  exaggerated  pleasantness 
when  her  husband  entered.  He  returned  the 
look  with  a  glare. 

"It's  a  nice  sunset,  father,"  she  said,  cheer 
fully. 

Mr.  Ganong  slammed  a  chair  down  close  to 

55 


THE  LORD  S  PRAYER  DRINKIN  GLASS 

the  stove,  and  collapsed  into  it,  with  his  back 
to  his  wife. 

"Set  over  a  little  bit,  can't  you,  father?" 
said  Mrs.  Ganong,  with  aggravating  amiability. 
"You  keep  the  fire  all  off  me  settin'  that  way." 

He  scraped  his  chair  along  the  carpet  about 
a  foot. 

"  Do  you  think  the  wind's  a-raisin',  father  ? " 

Mr.  Ganong  mumbled. 

"  What-a-say,  father  ?  You  do  mumble  so  ! 
I  can't  hear  you  ha'f  the  time,  you  mumble  so. 
What-a-say  ? " 

"  I  say,  dang  the  wind  !  " 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Ganong,  with  a  laugh. 
"  That  you,  Prudence  ?  You  got  supper  all 
ready,  have  you?  That's  right  —  don't  let  the 
grass  grow  under  your  feet.  Set  the  table  now, 
spry." 

When  the  table  had  been  laid  and  the  supper 
brought  in,  Mrs.  Ganong  took  her  place,  facing 
her  husband  triumphantly. 

"Just  you  see  how  that  sunset  draws  itself 
out,"  she  said. 

With  her  eyes  dwelling  on  the  golds  and 
purples  marching  majestically  down  the  western 
sky,  she  lifted  her  glass  and  took  a  long  draught 
of  water.  Then  she  lowered  her  eyes.  She 
gave  a  start,  and  sat  motionless,  staring  at  the 
glass.  It  was  the  Lord's  Prayer  glass,  and  she 

56 


THE    LORD'S    PRAYER    DRINKIN*    GLASS 


had  drunk  from  it  unconsciously.  She  cast  an 
angry  look  at  Prudence,  but  the  affectionate 
shine  in  the  girl's  eyes  disarmed  her. 

"You  prayed  without  knowin'  it,  Mis'  Ga- 
nong,  didn't  you?"  she  said,  happily. 

A  grim  smile  moved  Mrs.  Ganong's  lips.  She 
had  prayed  !  She  !  Then  her  face  grew  grave. 
How  long  had  it  been  since  she  had  prayed? 
Not  since  that  awful  night  when  she  had  prayed, 
on  her  knees  by  her  bed,  till  dawn,  and  at  the 
last  had  cried  out  wildly  to  God  that  if  He  did 
not  answer  her  prayer  and  give  her  back  her 
child  she  would  never  pray  again.  And  He  had 
not  answered  it.  When,  later,  He  would  have 
answered  it  and  given  back  her  child,  she  had 
set  her  lips  hard  and  said  that  it  was  too  late. 
She  would  have  no  sin  in  her  house.  She  had 
driven  her  child  from  her  door,  and  she  had  gone 
God  only  knew  where.  Mrs.  Ganong  never 
asked  ;  she  thought  she  never  cared.  She  made 
no  moan,  she  uttered  no  complaint.  She  took 
up  her  burden  and  laid  it  upon  her,  and  carried 
it.  Her  back  did  not  break,  nor  did  it  bend ; 
she  faced  life  grimly  and  held  herself  upright, 
but  sometimes  the  thought  of  hell  itself  seemed 
sweet  compared  to  some  other  thoughts  of  hers. 
And  there  was  now  and  then  a  wild  night  when 
she  arose  silently  from  her  bed  and  went  forth 
to  walk  in  the  storm,  letting  the  winds  lash  her 

57 


THE  LORD  S  PRAYER  DRINKIN   GLASS 

and  the  rains  drench  her,  suffering,  suffering, 
and  enduring  in  fierce  silence,  like  a  dumb 
brute ;  and  if,  like  a  hot  lance  of  lightning,  the 
thought  blazed  through  her  mind  that  perhaps 
somewhere  her  only  child  was  facing  that  same 
storm,  homeless  and  friendless,  she  only  set  her 
lips  harder  together  and  bore  that,  too. 

She  set  the  glass  down  silently.-  Her  eyes 
still  dwelt  upon  it.  She  could  not  escape  from 
the  words  that  stood  out,  large  and  clear,  from 
the  others,  "  Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we 
forgive  them  who  trespass  against  us." 

For  a  second  time  that  day  something  came 
beating  up  into  her  thin  old  throaf  and  choked 
her. 


Usually  Christmas  brings  a  sweep  of  yellow 
sunlight  and  a  gush  of  bird-song  to  Puget 
Sound.  Plushy  catkins  silver  the  pussy-willows, 
and  the  wild  currant  pushes  out  timidly  its 
beautiful  corrugated  leaves.  Every  flower-bed 
has  its  border  of  %  blooming  violets  and  pansies, 
terraces  are  drifted  with  "  summer  snow,"  and 
roses  and  crimson  hollyhocks  are  not  infrequent 
holiday  guests.  Often,  too,  by  this  time  the 
wild  lupine  has  sprung  six  inches  from  the  moist 
brown  earth,  and  little  merry  companies  of 

58 


THE  LORD  S  PRAYER  DRINKIN   GLASS 

"spring  beauties"  spread  their  gauzy  lavender 
skirts  and  peep  out  at  passers-by  from  sheltering 
banks,  swaying  in  the  winds  like  fairy  ballet- 
dancers.  The  inland  sea  is  a  deep,  rich  violet, 
with  silver,  throbbing  clouds  of  sea-birds  drifting 
above  it ;  and  as  for  the  lonely  grandeur  of  the 
snow  mountains  that  glimmer  mistily,  like 
pearls,  upon  the  sky,  the  sunrises  that  beryl 
the  East  and  the  sunsets  that  roll  great  thistle- 
downs  of  color  through  the  opal  gate  that  lets 
the  ocean  in  to  Puget  Sound  —  there  is  no  pen 
and  there  is  no  brush  that  can  give  their  noble 
majesty  to  the  world.  But  no  more  exalted 
praise  ever  mounts  to  God  than  that  which 
silently  swells  the  heart  and  uplifts  the  soul 
when  the  dweller  in  this  peerless  land  turns  to 
his  window  at  dawn  as  a  nun  might  turn  to  her 
rosary.  From  this  land  one  day  a  Solomon 
shall  go  forth,  singing  to  the  world,  and  his 
song  shall  be  neither  of  creeds  nor  of  hells,  but 
of  pure  and  simple  faith,  of  high,  spontaneous 
praise,  a  love-song  to  God. 

But  that  winter  —  oh,  but  it  was -long  and 
hard  and  bitter  !  There  had  never  been  one 
like  it.  The  old  settlers  sat  moodily  beside  the 
grocery  stoves  and  stared  out  the  windows  with 
dazed  eyes,  reluctantly  confessing  by  their  very 
silence  that  there  was  no  such  winter  in  their 
memories.  It  was  the  only  one  of  its  kind 

59 


THE    LORD'S    PRAYER    DRINKIN*    GLASS 

The  Lummi  Indians  had  prophesied  it  all  sum 
mer,  pointing  to  the  caterpillars  that  crawled 
in  armies  over  the  board  sidewalks  and  the 
fences. 

For  weeks  the  North  wind  churned  the  sea, 
foaming  and  roaring,  out  to  the  ocean,  and  bore 
the  snow  in  keen,  level  lines  through  the  air  or 
heaped  it  into  great  drifts  around  the  trees  and 
houses.  And  these  houses !  They  had  been 
built  —  even  the  most  comfortable  among  them 
—  for  sunlight  and  soft  winds.  The  snow  found 
their  weak  places  and  seethed  in,  piling  into  tall 
cones  upon  velvet  carpets  and  polished  floors. 
The  rich  shivered  in  beautiful  homes,  and  the 
poor  suffered  in  wretched  shacks  —  alas,  the 
poor ! 

It  was  the  morning  before  Christmas.  Mrs. 
Leathers  was  seeding  raisins  in  the  dining-room, 
which  was  also  the  sitting-room,  when  she  was 
surprised  by  a  call  from  Mrs.  Wilson. 

"  You  must  of  blowed  over,"  she  said.  "  Set 
down.  My,  ain't  it  awful !  " 

"  It  is,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson.  She  unwound  her 
gray  shawl  from  her  head  and  shoulders.  She 
was  breathing  hard.  "  There  never's  been  any 
thing  like  it  on  Puget  Sound.  I  was  born 
here,  so  I'd  ought  to  know.  I'm  all  het  up ! 
I  wish  to  mercy  I  hadn't  got  myself  all  het  up 
so.  It's  hard  a-walkin'  agen  the  wind.  I'd 
60 


THE    LORD  S    PRAYER    DRINKIN      GLASS 

ought  to  of  knowed  better.  I'll  begin  to  sneeze 
pretty  soon,  an'  when  I  begin  there's  no  lettin' 
up." 

"Well,  I'm  reel  glad  you  come,  anyhow." 

"  I  see  Mr.  Ganong  's  I  come  by,  a-settin'  by 
the  window,  a-sewin'  on  buttons.  I  should  smile 
if  I  couldn't  keep  Mr.  Wilson's  buttons  sewed 
on." 

"Well,  so  should  I.  I  see  Mr.  Ganong 
a-darnin'  socks  one  day  's  I  come  by.  Her  with 
a  hired  girl,  too,  that  she's  had  ever  sence  she 
was  ten  years  old,  an'  lets  take  liberties.  Why, 
she  give  her  a  Lord's  Prayer  drinkin'  glass." 

"I  know  it.  An'  she  sets  up  there  ev'ry 
day,  like  a  fir-tree  stump,  an'  drinks  out  of  it  for 
fear  she'll  hurt  Prudence's  feelin's.  I  should 
smile  to  see  myself  humor  a  hired  girl  that 
way." 

"Well,  so  should  I.  I  should  smile  more  to 
think  of  anybody  givin'  Mis'  Ganong  a  Lord's 
Prayer  drinkin'  glass.  My,  oh  !  " 

Then  Mrs.  Leathers  leaned  forward  in  her 
chair,  drawing  her  eyelids  together.  There 
was  always  a  rich  morsel  of  gossip  coming  when 
Mrs.  Leathers  did  that.  It  reminded  one  of  a 
serpent  ready  to  strike. 

"Then  you  ain't  heard?"  she  said.  "You'd 
of  let  it  out  before  this  if  you  had  of." 

"  No."  Mrs.  Wilson  spoke  regretfully.  "  I 
61 


THE  LORD  S  PRAYER  DRINKIN   GLASS 

ain't.  What  is  it  ?  You  look  as  if  it  was  some- 
thin'  awful.  Out  with  it.  Do." 

Mrs.  Wilson  sunk  her  voice  to  a  hissing  whisper. 

"  Mis'  Ganong's  daughter's  come  back." 

"  Oh,  my  land  !     Annie  Laurie  f  " 

"  Yes,  Annie  Laurie.  She's  been  back  a 
month,  an'  not  a  soul's  knowed  it  tell  now. 
She's  livin',  or  rather,  dyin',  in  a  shack  down  on 
the  beach,  an'  there  wa'n't  a  soul  went  a-near 
her  tell  yesterday.  She  ain't  got  a  bite  to  eat 
in  the  shack,  an'"  only  a  little  drif'wood  that 
she's  crawled  out  an'  gethered  up  of  herself  — 
an'  her  a-dyin'  of  consumption.  The  wind  goes 
through  the  shack  as  if  it  was  a  barn  with  the 
door  open,  an'  the  snow  blows  in  an'  freezes 
within  six  foot  of  her  bed." 

"Oh,  my  mercy  — ' 

"An'  her  mother  sets  up  there  in  her  fine 
house  with  a  hired  girl  an'  a  red-hot  stove,  an' 
her  husband  a-sewin'  on  his  own  buttons  his- 
self,  an'  her  a-drinkin'  out  of  a  Lord's  Prayer 
drinkin'  glass!  " 

Mrs.  Leathers  got  up  and  set  the  pan  of  raisins 
on  the  table.  She  was  pale.  Her  knuckly  fin 
gers  trembled  as  she  unbuttoned  her  apron.  She 
walked  with  great  strides  into  her  bedroom,  re 
turning  in  a  moment  with  a  brown  shawl  over 
her  head. 

"  Oh,  Mis'  Leathers  !    Where  are  you  a-goin'  ? " 

62 


THE    LORD'S    PRAYER    DRINKIN*    GLASS 

"I'm  a-goin'  up  to  see  Mis'  Ganong.  /'// 
Lord's  Prayer  her  !  " 

"  Oh,  my  land  !  Ain't  you  afraid  ?  Be  you 
goin'  to  tell  her?" 

"  No,  I  ain't  afraid.  I  should  smile  if  I  was 
afraid  of  her.  I'm  a-goin'  to  tell  her.  /'//  Lord's 
Prayer  her ! " 

Mrs.  Ganong  was  sewing  when  Prudence  ush 
ered  Mrs.  Leathers  in. 

"  Oh,  good  mornin',  Mary,"  she  said,  cordially. 
They  had  been  girls  together.  "  I  wonder  you 
come  up  this  offul  weather.  It's  reel  clever  of 
you.  Set  right,  down.  Why,  how  pale  you  be  ! 
Be  you  sick  ? " 

"Jane  Ellen"  —  Mrs.  Leathers  spoke  with  a 
kind  of  fierce  courage  —  "  Annie  Laurie's  come 
back." 

The  grayness  of  ashes  flashed  over  Mrs. 
Ganong's  face.  Her  lips  made  one  tremulous 
movement,  but  uttered  no  sound. 

"  She's  been  here  a  month,  through  all  this  tur- 
rable  storm,  a-livin'  like  a  beggar  in  a  shack  down 
on  the  beach.  She's  a-dyin'  of  consumption,  an' 
she  ain't  any  wood  exceptin'  what  drif'wood  she 
goes  out  an'  gethers  up  of  herself.  There  ain't 
a  bite  to  eat  in  her  shack." 

She  paused  long  enough  to  draw  breath.  Mrs. 
Ganong  had  sat  down  and  resumed  her  sewing, 
taking  each  stitch  with  care. 

63 


THE    LORD  S    PRAYER    DRINKIN     GLASS 

"  It  looks  as  if  it  was  goin'  to  keep  on  blizzardy 
over  Christmas,"  she  said,  cheerfully ;  but  there 
was  an  awful  beating  in  her  throat. 

"  Jane  Ellen,  the  snow  blows  into  that  shack 
an'  freezes  within  six  foot  of  the  girl's  bed.  An' 
you  set  up  here  by  a  red-hot  stove  an'  have  all 
you  want  to  eat  an'  a  girl  to  wait  on  you,  an' 
rock  yourself  an'  sew!" 

"  I  see  Judge  Neely's  fambly  has  all  come  home 
to  spen'  the  holodays,"  said  Mrs.  Ganong,  amiably. 
"Why  don't  you  set  down,  Mary?  It's  mighty 
clever  of  you  to  come  up  this  offul  weather." 

Mrs.  Leathers  looked  at  her  long  and  hard. 
Then  she  drew  the  brown  shawl  over  her  head 
and  turned  to  the  door.  "  May  the  Lord  A'mighty 
forgive  you,"  she  said,  and  went  out,  bending  her 
tall  frame  to  the  storm. 

Mr.  Ganong  did  not  come  home  to  the  midday 
meal,  and  Mrs.  Ganong  fasted.  Usually  she  was 
able  to  keep  up  appearances,  but  to-day,  notwith 
standing  Prudence's  curious  eyes  and  solicitous 
care,  she  could  not  eat  a  mouthful.  "  Oh,  Mis' 
Ganong!"  said  Prudence,  with  a  sound  of  tears 
in  her  voice.  "  Can't  you  even  drink  a  little  tea? 
Oh,  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  sick  for  Chris'mas,  be 
you  ?  You  look  offul  gray.  Why,  just  you  think 
about  that  great  big  turkey  an'  oyster  stuffin',  an* 
mince  an'  punkin  pie,  an'  the  plum  puddin',  an' 
hard  dip,  an'  whipped  cream.  I  guess  there's  lots 

64 


THE    LORD'S    PRAYER    DRINKIN*    GLASS 


o'  poor  people  so  hungry  that  just  to  smell  o'  our 
dinner  'u'd  seem  most  like  dinner  to  'em.  I  hear 
there's  a  poor  woman  in  a  shack  down  on  the 
beach—" 

"  That'll  do,  now  !  "  cried  out  Mrs.  Ganong,  in 
a  great  voice.  "  I  ain't  sick.  I  ain't  one  o'  the 
sick  kind." 

"Well,  you  look  it,"  said  Prudence,  comfort 
ingly. 

Toward  night  the  storm  lashed  itself  into  a 
frenzy.  There  was  a  continuous  roar,  like  that  of 
the  ocean,  in  the  forest.  The  sea  came  pounding 
and  seething  up  the  tide-lands ;  the  surf  flung 
itself,  hissing,  high  upon  the  rock  cliffs ;  the 
houses  shook  and  trembled. 

Mr.  Ganong  did  not  come  home.  Mrs.  Ganong 
sat  down  alone  to  her  supper. 

"  You  take  an'  eat  now,"  said  Prudence.  "  I've 
made  you  some  corn-fritters.  I  knew  you  could 
eat  them  if  you  could  anything.  An'  I  made  a 
little  turnover,  too." 

" You're  offul  good,"  said  Mrs.  Ganong;  but 
the  first  mouthful  choked  her. 

Prudence  brought  a  glass  of  water.  "  I'd  ought 
to  of  kep'  this  glass  an'  give  it  to  you  fer  Christ 
mas,"  she  said,  regretfully.  She  stood  silently 
deliberating  for  a  moment,  then  she  said,  timidly, 
"Mis'  Ganong,  once  I  was  in  a-seein'  Mis'  Sim- 
mons's  girl,  an'  I  heard  Mis'  Simmons  a-laffin'  in  the 

65 


THE    LORD'S    PRAYER    DRINKIN'    GLASS 

settin'-room  because  I'd  give  you  this  glass.  '  The 
idee,'  she  says,  'of  anybody  a-givin'  a  prayer  glass 
to  Mis  Ganong!  Her  a-drinkin'  out  of  a  glass 
that's  got  on  it,  Fergive  us  our  trespasses  as  we 
fergive  them,  who  trespass  against  us !  Why, 
she  couldnt  fergive,  if  she  prayed  tell  her  tongue 
dropped  out !  It  ain't  in  her  to  fergive.  She's 
made  out  o'  stone  — ' ' 

Mrs.  Ganong  got  up  suddenly.  Her  face  was 
quivering ;  her  bony  old  hands  shook.  "  It  ain't 
so,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  shook,  too.  "I  can 
fergive,  an'  I  have  fergive.  But  I've  been  too 
proud  an'  bitter  to  give  in  to  't ;  an'  I  never  would 
of  give  in  to  't  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  an'  your 
drinkin'  glass.  Prudence,  you're  only  my  hired 
girl,  an'  most  people  'u'd  turn  up  their  nose  at 
the  idee  of  learnin'  from  a  hired  girl;  but  you 
an'  your  drinkin'  glass  has  done  what  nobody  else 
could  of  done.  I've  give  in  !  I'll  show  Mis'  Sim 
mons  an'  Mis'  Leathers  an'  Mis'  Ever'body  else 
that  when  I  do  give  in,  I  give  in  all  over.  You 
get  me  my  cloak  an'  my  hood.  I'm  a-goin'  out." 

"  Oh,  Mis'  Ganong  !     In  this  storm  ?  " 

"  In  this  storm.     Step  spry  now  !  " 

Prudence  went  into  the  bedroom,  closing  the 
door.  Mrs.  Ganong  lifted  her  voice.  "Prudence!" 

The  girl  opened  the  door  and  looked  in. 

"  Was  you  speakin'  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  was  speakin'.     Step  spry." 
66 


THE    LORD'S    PRAYER    DRINKIN*    GLASS 

When  Mrs.  Ganong  was  carefully  bundled  up, 
she  said,  "  You  take  this  key,  an'  open  the  little 
bedroom  —  " 

"  Oh,  Mis'  Ganong !  The  one  you  always  keep 
locked?" 

"  Yes,  the  one  I  always  keep  locked.  Red  it 
all  up.  Build  a  good  fire  in  it,  an'  warm  the 
sheets ;  an'  have  some  hot  tea.  Don't  stand 
there  a-starin' !  Step  spry." 

With  her  clothing  flapping  fiercely  around 
her,  the  sleet  stinging  her  flesh,  and  the  winds 
shrieking  in  the  telephone  wires  high  above  her, 
Mrs.  Ganong  went  down  the  hill  that  awful 
Christmas  night  to  find  her  child.  Her  body 
was  bent  forward  at  a  sharp  angle  to  her  waist ; 
her  lips  were  set  together,  and  her  gray  head 
was  bowed. 

A  faint  light  shone  from  the  curtainless 
window  of  the  shack.  She  opened  the  door 
and  entered.  "  I  won't  give  way  !  I  won't  give 
way  —  I  won't !  "  she  had  been  saying  over  and 
over.  "Them  women'll  be  there,  an'  they 
sha'n't  crow  over  me  an'  say  I  give  way ! " 

But  her  heart  was  knocking  at  her  throat  and 
her  knees  were  trembling.  Her  eyes  went 
searching  till  they  met  Annie  Laurie's  and  then 
she  no  longer  knew  that  there  were  others  in 
the  room.  Somehow  she  got  to  the  bed.  Not 
a  word  was  spoken,  but  passionate  tears  swept 

67 


THE   LORD'S    PRAYER    DRINKIN*    GLASS 

like  rain  down  that  bitter  old  face  as  she  drew 
the  girl  up  close,  close  to  her  breast,  and  held 
her  there. 

But  in  a  little  while  she  laid  the  girl  gently 
down,  and  sunk  stiffly  upon  her  knees  by  the 
bed,  and  lifted  up  her  face  to  God.  "  Oh,  Lord, 
Lord  !  "  she  uttered.  "  You  know  how  long  it's 
been  since  I  durst  to  pray !  But  I  durst  now, 
O  Lord ;  an '  I  ask  You  to  f ergive  me  as  I  fer- 
give  her !  Oh,  Lord,  have  mercy  —  " 

The  girl's  thin  arm  went  around  her  mother's 
neck ;  and  heaven  knows  well  that  she  did  not 
mean  to  be  bitter  or  reproachful  or  anything  but 
tender  and  comforting,  when  she  said  —  "  Oh, 
mother,  don't  you  worry.  When  you  can  for 
give,  I  know  God  can." 


68 


EUPHEMY 


EUPHEMY 

"  Ephrum." 

Ephraim  gave  a  start. 

"  How  ? " 

"  I  don't  see  's  we  can  get  along  without  takin' 
a  boarder  in." 

"How?" 

"  I  say  I  don't  see  's  we  can  get  along  without 
takin'  a  boarder  in." 

"Oh!" 

Ephraim  stooped  over  the  wash-bench  again. 

"Ephrum,"  said  his  mother,  sternly,  from 
her  great  chair  by  the  window,  "don't  choo 
slush  the  water  around  so.  You  always  slush 
it  around  so.  Euphemy  takes  an'  mops  up  the 
floor  after  you  ev'ry  time  you  wash." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Euphemy,  cheerfully. 
She  was  flying  about  the  big  kitchen  lightly,  set 
ting  the  dinner  on  the  table.  "Your  maw  an' 
me's  been  talkin'  it  all  over,  Ephrum  —  about 
the  boarder,  I  mean.  Skillings's  have  took  one 
in,  an'  Mis'  Skillings  was  here  this  mornin'  ;  she 
says  it  helps  out  like  ev'ry  thing." 

"That  so?"  said  Ephraim. 

71 


EUPHEMY 

found  seventeen.  I  could  of,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  that." 

"  Well,  if  you  had  of,  you'd  of  got  through 
with  your  work  that  much  sooner  this  after 
noon.  I  never  see." 

"Who'd  you  take  in?"  asked  Ephraim,  sud 
denly.  Euphemy  looked  puzzled. 

"  How,  Ephrum?" 

"  I  say,  who'd  you  take  in  to  board?" 

"Oh!"  The  small  dissembler  deliberated 
a  moment  with  drawn  brows.  Then  her  face 
cleared.  "  Why,  how  about  that  young  lady 
that's  teachin'  in  the  red  school-house  ?  I  did 
hear  she  wanted  a  boardin'-place  like  ev'rything. 
She  pays  twenty  dollars,  too." 

"  Her  that  come  into  church  last  Sunday  with 
her  hair  frizzled  all  over  her  head,  and  them  big 
red  hollyhocks  a-danglin'  all  around  the  brim  o' 
her  hat  —  " 

"  Poppies,  Ephrum.  Poppies  is  all  the  style 
now.  Yes,  that  was  her." 

"Well,  then,  we  don't  want  her."  Ephraim 
glared  at  her.  "  She  had  got  herself  up  like  a 
actress  or  a  circus  rider.  I  wonder  the  trustees 
has  her !  I  like  a  neat,  modest,  well-behaved 
woman  around  me." 

Euphemy  blushed  faintly,  accepting  this  as 
a  compliment  to  herself.  She  and  Ephraim 
were  engaged.  She  had  a  slim,  neat  figure,  but 

73 


EUPHEMV 

He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  moist  hair  and 
sat  down  at  the  table,  pulling  his  chair  up  with 
a  squeak.  Euphemy  wheeled  his  mother's  chair 
to  the  table. 

"  I  don't  see  's  we'd  ever  get  that  mortgage 
paid  off  at  this  rate,  Ephrum.  A  boarder  an' 
lodger  'u'd  pay  twenty  dollars  a  month,  an'  it 
'u'd  be  most  all  clear  gain,  we  got  so  many  eggs 
an'  vegetables  an'  so  much  cream  an'  butter 
goin'  to  waste." 

"Hunh!"  saidEphraim. 

Then  Euphemy  settled  down  to  her  dinner 
softly,  like  a  bird  to  its  nest.  She  began  to 
talk  of  something  else.  She  was  a  wise  young 
woman  and  she  knew  how  to  manage  her  cousin 
Ephraim  and  bring  him  around  to  her  way  of 
thinking. 

"  Your  elbow's  better,  ain't  it,  Aunt  Charlotte  ? 
I  see  you  can  use  it  some." 

Mrs.  Worden's  countenance  fell. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it's  better  now,"  she  said,  in  a 
mournful  tone ;  "  but  no  knowin'  when  it'll  go 
to  actin'  up  ag'in.  Between  it  an'  my  knee ! 
One  of  'em  has  to  start  up  ev'ry  once  in  so  often, 
or  it  wouldn't  be  them.  Didn't  you  have  time  to 
clean  your  lamp-flues  afore  dinner,  Euphemy?" 

"  Yes,  I  could  of,"  said  Euphemy  with  a  guilty 
look,  "  but  I  went  out  to  get  the  dandyline 
greens  an'  got  to  findin'  four-leaf  clovers.  I 
72 


EUPHEMY 

her  face  was  exceedingly  plain,  with  the  ejitep- 
tion  of  her  eyes,  which  were  sweet  and  wistful. 
Her  soft  brown  hair  went  away  from  her  face 
in  little  prim,  even  waves  that  ended  in  a  knot  at 
the  back  of  her  head. 

"  Land  of  love ! "  said  Mrs.  Worden,  in  a 
muffled  tone.  "  Somebody's  a-knockin'.  Who 
d'  you  s'pose  it  is  at  this  time  o'  day  ?  This 
table-cloth  ain't  overly  clean,  Euphemy,  but 
you'll  have  to  bring  'em  right  in,  I  guess.  Button 
up  your  wris'band,  Ephrum.  I  wish  we  had 
more  of  a  dinner.  If  it's  that  Mis'  Dean,  she'll 
see  everything  that's  on  the  table  an'  ev'rything 
that  ought  to  be  on  an'  ain't,  all  at  one  look. 
You  go  on,  Euphemy." 

Euphemy  went  at  once.  In  the  old  gray 
frame  of  the  door  was  a  picture  of  loveliness  with 
the  pale  green  of  the  orchard  for  a  background  ; 
a  young  woman,  all  fluffs  and  frizzles  and  red 
poppies  and  dimples.  She  came  in  smiling,  her 
eyes  on  Ephraim,  who  colored  to  the  roots  of 
his  hair. 

"  I  heard  you  were  thinking  of  taking  a 
boarder,"  she  said  to  his  mother,  but  still  keep 
ing  her  eyes  on  him.  "  I  do  wish  you'd  take 
me.  I  won't  be  a  bit  of  trouble  —  really  and 
truly."  She  cast  down  her  long  lashes  demurely. 

Euphemy  looked  at  Ephraim  in  a  kind  of 
terror,  fully  expecting  that  he  would  annihilate 

74 


EUPHEMY 

this  audacious  young  person  with  one  of  his 
awful  glances,  before  which  she  herself  invari 
ably  quailed. 

To  her  amazement  he  said : 

"  Well,  set  right  down  an'  have  a  bite  o'  din 
ner.  We'll  talk  it  over.  Set  a  place,  Euphemy." 

Mrs.  Worden  blushed  across  her  eyes. 

"We  ain't  got  much  of  a  dinner  to-day,"  she 
said,  with  a  sickly  smile.  "It's  jest  a  pick-up 
dinner  —  scriddlin's,  I  may  say.  We'd  always 
give  you  a  better  'n  this  if  you  boarded  here. 
Euphemy  'u'd  fairly  hump  herself  to  see  that 
ev'rything  was  up  to  the  top  notch.  Your  name 
is  Sadie  Milne,  ain't  it?  This  is  my  son.  He 
expects  to  be  one  o'  the  trustees  next  term,"  she 
added,  with  an  air  of  pride.  "  His  father  was 
one  afore  him.  Yes,  we've  been  a-talkin'  about 
takin'  a  boarder  in,  but  I  do'  know  "  —  she  looked 
the  young  woman  over  furtively  —  "  we  ain't 
much  on  style  here.  We  have  good  plain  victuals, 
an'  Euphemy's  a  good  cook  —  season  with  butter 
an'  thicken  with  cream !  That's  my  receipt  for 
a  good  cook  —  but  we  ain't  much  on  style." 

"  I'm  not,  either,"  said  the  young  woman, 
letting  two  dimples  come  out  to  enjoy  the  fib. 
"  This  dinner  is  good  enough  for  me.  My, 
what  cream  !  "  She  gave  Ephraim  a  glance. 
"  I  saw  you  at  church  Sunday,"  she  said,  bash 
fully.  "  You  sat  just  behind  me.  I'd  have  known 

75 


EUPHEMY 

you  anywheres  again.    You  were  so — so  differ 
ent,  you  know,  from  all  the  other  men." 

A  glow  like  the  sunset  spread  over  Ephraim's 
face.  He  swallowed  some  potato  so  suddenly 
that  he  almost  choked.  His  mother  took  a 
mental  inventory  of  his  charms,  with  a  dazed 
air.  "  How  different  ?  "  she  demanded,  while 
Euphemy  thrilled  and  quivered  with  pride  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table. 

The  teacher  blushed  and  toyed  nervously 
with  a  bit  of  bread,  squeezing  it  into  a  small  cube. 

"Oh,  I— don't  know,"  she  faltered.  "  He  is  so 
—  so — distinguished-looking  —  and  so  —  er  —  I 
thought  he  was  a  —  state  senator,"  she  con 
cluded,  lamely,  quite  overcome  with  confusion, 
but  finding  strength  to  give  Ephraim  one  brief 
and  eloquent  look. 

There  was  a  great  silence.  Euphemy  could 
do  nothing  but  look  at  him  with  all  her  love  and 
pride  in  her  tender  eyes. 

At  last  his  mother  said : 

"Well  —  I'm  —  sure."  Then  there  was  an 
other  silence.  "  Well  —  I'm  —  sure.  He  could 
of  been  one  if  he'd  wanted  to,  I  guess."  Her 
chest  swelled  out  proudly.  "  His  gran'father 
was  one.  It  ain't  too  late.  Well,  Ephrum,  what 
you  got  to  say  ?  Do  you  want  to  take  a  boarder 
in  ?  I  guess  Miss  Milne  wants  to  know  right 
off." 

76 


EUPHEMY 

''I'd  just  as  soon,"  mumbled  Ephraim,  with  a 
shamefaced  air. 

"  What-a-say,  Ephrum  ?  I  didn't  hear  you. 
Why  can't  you  speak  up  loud  ?  " 

Ephraim  lifted  up  his  voice. 

"  I  say  I'd  just  as  soon." 

"Well,  then,  that's  settled,"  said  the  young 
woman,  putting  one  arm  akimbo  and  eating  her 
rice  pudding  with  dainty  satisfaction.  "  I'll  have 
my  things  sent  over  to-night,  and  I'll  be  here  in 
time  for  supper." 

Euphemy  looked  askance  at  the  bended  arm, 
then  at  Ephraim.  An  arm  akimbo  was  dread 
ful  surely,  at  any  time,  in  her  gentle  judgment, 
but  at  the  table  —  what  would  Ephraim  do  ? 

Ephraim  did  nothing. 

When  she  was  gone,  he  picked  up  his  hat  and 
said : 

"  She  ain't  as  bad  as  I  thought  she  was.  She's 
just  young  an'  childish-like,  I  guess.  She's  reel 
nice  spoken." 

"  Ephrum,"  said  his  mother,  "  you're  a  fool, 
if  ever  there  was  one." 


Just  before  supper  that  evening  Euphemy, 
running  out  on  the  back  porch  for  something, 
swiftly  and  lightly  as  she  always  went,  came 

77 


EUPHEMY 

upon  Ephraim  standing  with  his  face  close  to  a 
little  wavy  mirror  that  hung  over  the  wash- 
bench.  He  was  holding  his  head  well  back, 
with  his  throat  swelled  out  grandly  and  the  look 
of  an  eagle  in  his  eyes. 

"Why,  Ephrum  !  "  she  said,  stopping  abruptly. 
"  What  are  you  a-doin'  ?  " 

His  fine  feathers  fell  as  he  faced  her  honest, 
astonished  eyes.  He  colored  clear  around  to 
the  back  of  his  neck. 

"  Oh,  nothin',"  he  replied,  with  a  sheepish  air. 
"I  —  was  just  a  wonderin'  if  I  hadn't  best 
shave." 

"Shave!"  she  repeated  innocently.  "Why, 
what  for?  This  ain't  Saturday  night,  Ephrum." 

"  No,  I  know  it  ain't  Saturday  night,  Euphemy, 
but  I  thought  —  mebbe  —  " 

He  hesitated. 

"  Mebbe  what,  Ephrum  ?  "  She  was  still  re 
garding  him  with  astonished  eyes. 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  but  what  —  mebbe  — 
I'd  best  shave  twice  a  week.     I  didn't  know  —  " 

"  Why,  you  never  have,  have  you,  Ephrum  ? " 

"  No,  I  never  have,"  he  replied,  with  a  kind  of 
fierce  impatience.  "  I  just  thought  mebbe  I'd 
best,  that's  all." 

Euphemy  pondered  silently  for  a  little  while. 

"  You  wasn't  thinkin'  of  goin'  anywheres,  was 
you,  Ephrum  ? " 


EUPHEMY 

"  No,  I  wasn't  thinkin'  of  goin'  anywheres, 
Euphemy,"  he  responded,  irascibly. 

She  sighed  helplessly. 

"Well,  then,  I  don't  see  what  on  earth  put 
shavin'  into  your  head,  Ephrum,  on  a  Wednes 
day  night.  Of  course  you  can  shave,  if  you  want 
to,  but  if  your  mother  or  me  had  of  wanted  you 
to  shave  on  a  Wednesday  night,  you  couldn't  of 
been  drug  to  do  it.  So  I  can't  see." 

Evidently  Ephraim  saw,  for  he  came  to  the 
supper  table  with  a  clean,  blue  upper  lip.  His 
hair  was  brushed  carefully,  and  his  wristbands 
were  both  buttoned. 

Always  on  summer  evenings  Ephraim  sat  on 
the  front  steps  smoking  his  pipe ;  and  when 
Euphemy  had  washed  the  dishes,  strained  the 
milk,  and  assisted  his  almost  helpless  mother 
to  bed,  she  usually  had  a  few  delicious  moments 
to  spare  when  she  would  go  out  and  sit  beside 
him,  resting  one  tired  arm  upon  his  knee,  and 
be  very,  very  happy. 

That  night  there  were  more  dishes  to  wash  than 
usual.  It  was  late  when  she  went  out  into  the 
sweet,  cool  night,  only  to  find  the  young  school 
teacher  stretched  luxuriously  in  her  hammock, 
which  Ephraim  had  swung  for  her  that  evening 
between  the  wall  and  a  porch  pillar.  She  nestled 
among  many  cushions,  with  her  pretty  arms 
thrown  above  her  head  and  one  slim  foot  in  a 

79 


EUPHEMY 

scarlet  slipper  hanging  over  the  edge  of   the 
hammock. 

Euphemy  stood  motionless. 

"  W'y,  Ephrum  !     You  ain't  a-smokin' !  " 

"  No,"  said  Ephraim. 

"  W'y,  why  ain't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  because." 

"  Because  what,  Ephrum  ?  What  ailded  you 
to-night  ? " 

"  Oh,  nothin'  ailded  me,  Euphemy.  I  didn't 
want  to,  that's  all." 

Oh,  the  problems  that  one  day  may  bring 
forth ! 

Euphemy  stood  with  her  arms  hanging  stiffly 
at  her  sides.  The  very  earth  seemed  to  be  slip 
ping  from  under  her.  Ephraim  with  a  blue 
upper  lip  in  the  middle  of  the  week,  and 
Ephraim  on  the  front  steps  on  a  summer 
evening  without  a  pipe  in  his  mouth ! 

At  last  she  said,  with  a  sound  of  tears  in  her 
voice : 

"  Oh,  Ephrum,  you  must  of  been  feelin'  sick. 
Be  you  a-goin'  to  have  a  fever  again  ? " 

"  Oh,  Lord  —  no!"  said  Ephraim.  "I  wish 
you  wouldn't  pester  so  !  What  makes  you  pes 
ter  so,  Euphemy  ? " 

"  Euphemy,"  called  a  stern  voice  from  an 
open  window  above  them,  "you  come  up  here, 
will  you  ? " 

80 


EUPHEMY 

She  went  wearily  up  to  her  aunt's  room. 
That  lady  was  sitting  up  in  bed  with  a  gray 
quilt  around  her.  A  candle  spluttered  on  a 
little  table  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  Her  eyes 
were  large  with  curiosity. 

"What  was  you  an'  Ephrum  a-talkin'  about 
down  there  so  loud  ? " 

"  Why,  he  wasn't  smokin',  an'  I  thought  he 
must  of  been  feelin'  sick." 

"  An'  was  he  ?  " 

"  No.  He  flared  all  up  because  I  asked  him. 
I  can't  see  what  ailded  him.  It  kind  of  scared 
me  for  fear  there  was  somethin'  the  matter  with 
him.  He  never  shaved  before  on  a  Wednesday." 

"  I  guess  there  ain't  much  the  matter  with 
him,  Euphemy.  I  wouldn't  go  to  gittin'  scairt, 
if  I  was  you.  There  ain't  a  man  alive  that's 
worth  a  girl  like  you  gittin'  scairt  about. 
Mebbe,"  she  added,  cautiously,  "the  teacher 
don't  like  tobacco  smoke." 

"Oh,  Ephrum  'u'd  never  of  stopped  for  that, 
Aunt  Charlotte.  I  didn't  use  to  like  it,  either. 
Don't  you  remember  when  I  first  come  here  it 
use  to  make  me  awful  sick,  but  he  went  right 
on  smokin'." 

"Yes,  I  remember."     The  old  woman  had  a 

habit  of  laying  the  bony  fingers  of  her  right 

hand  in  the  hollows  between  the  knuckles  of 

the  left  when  she  was  vexed  or  perplexed.     She 

81 


EUPHEMY 

did  this  now,  fitting  them  in  carefully  and  then 
looking  down  at  them  without  seeing  them. 
Her  hard  old  face  softened  to  a  pitying  tender 
ness  for  the  girl.  "Euphemy,"  she  said,  "come 
here." 

The  girl  obeyed  with  a  look  of  gentle  wonder. 
Her  aunt  stretched  out  her  trembling  hands  and 
took  hold  of  those  slim  young  wrists. 

"  Euphemy,"  she  said,  "  I  love  you  better  'n  I 
love  Ephrum  —  better  'n  I  love  anything  on  earth. 
I'm  old  an'  palsied,  an'  a  hard  life's  made  me 
bitter  an'  sour,  but  you've  done  all  the  work  an' 
waited  on  me  faithful  for  six  year.  Ephrum 
talked  big  about  givin'  you  a  home  when  your 
paw  died,  but  Lord  A'mighty  knows  you've 
earned  six  homes  since  you've  been  here.  You've 
done  all  the  work,  an'  took  keer  o'  the  milk  an' 
made  the  butter,  an'  you've  worked  out  'n  the 
field  a-droppin'  potatoes  an'  doin'  all  kinds  o' 
Tom,  Dick,  an'  Harry  work.  To  cap  it  all,  I've 
been  cross  an'  crabbed  —  but  you've  never  give 
me  a  back-sass  word.  So  I  just  thought  I'd  like 
to  tell  you  I  loved  you  an'  to  kiss  you  good 
night." 

The  girl  toppled  forward  stiffly  into  that  bristly 
embrace,  touched  but  unresponsive  through  sheer 
surprise.  Her  aunt  had  never  kissed  her.  When 
she  had  come,  a  pale,  starved-hearted  orphan, 
into  her  new  home,  her  aunt,  who  happened  to 
82 


EUPHEMY 

be  stirring  corn-meal  mush  in  a  big  kettle  on  the 
stove,  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  her  over 
her  shoulder. 

"That  choo,  Euphemy?"  she  said.  She  had 
never  seen  the  child.  "  You  look  like  your  maw 
did.  Well,  take  off  your  things  an'  lay  'em  on 
the  table.  I  can't  leave  this  here  mush  right 
now  —  it's  splutterin'  so.  Be  you  all  tired  out  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  Euphemy  had  replied,  with  a  faint 
smile  and  a  chill  like  death  in  her  heart. 

Nor  had  Ephraim  ever  kissed  her  —  not  even 
when  she  had  promised  to  marry  him  with  a  rush 
of  happiness  that  had  shaken  her  frail  little  body 
like  a  leaf.  At  first  she  was  always  thinking  he 
would,  and  she  used  to  loiter  on  the  way  home 
from  church  on  dark  Sunday  evenings  with  her 
hand  through  his  arm.  But  he  walked  on,  hold 
ing  himself  stiff  and  erect,  with  his  chin  in  the 
air,  pulling  her  grimly  along  beside  him,  or,  if 
she  loitered  too  insistently,  sticking  his  arm  out 
at  right  angles  as  an  intimation  that  she  might 
let  go  and  stay  behind  if  she  couldn't  keep  up 
with  him.  One  dark  night  she  made  sure  he 
was  going  to  kiss  her  at  last.  They  had  reached 
the  porch  and  she  stood  close  beside  him  while 
he  fumbled  with  the  key  in  the  lock,  being 
unable  to  make  it  turn.  Finally  he  stopped, 
and  turning  his  face  toward  her,  said  in  a  low 
tone,  "  Euphemy  !  " 

83 


EUPHEMY 

She  thrilled  and  trembled. 

"Yes,  Ephrum,"  she  whispered.  She  slipped 
her  hand  encouragingly  on  his  arm  and  lifted 
her  face  a  little  nearer  to  his.  "What  is  it, 
Ephrum  ? " 

"  What  in  the  old  Harry's  the  matter  of  this 
keyhole  ?  Stand  over,  can't  choo,  an'  give  me 
more  elbow  room,  or  I'll  never  make  this  key 
turn  to-night." 

After  that  she  had  given  up  all  hope  of  his 
kissing  her,  and  had  settled  down  uncomplain 
ingly  to  wait  on  him  and  his  mother.  One  by 
one  her  sweet,  girlish  dreams  had  deserted  her. 
She  told  herself  sternly  that  kisses  were  silly 
things  ;  Ephraim  was  above  them.  It  was  quite 
enough  joy  for  any  girl  to  be  loved  by  Ephraim, 
to  be  daily  hemming  cloths  for  Ephraim's  table 
and  sheets  for  Ephraim's  bed.  If,  now  and  then, 
on  one  of  those  white,  silent  summer  nights, 
when  the  whole  world  seems  to  be  aching  of 
love  and  ecstasy,  there  arose  in  her  heart  a  wish 
—  so  strong  that  it  was  like  a  passionate  cry  — 
that  Ephraim  were  not  above  kisses  and  tender 
ways,  she  sprang  up  in  her  white  couch  in  terror 
and  commenced  telling  off  the  rosary  of  his 
virtues. 

So  her  aunt's  kiss  was  the  first  she  had  known 
since  her  mother  died. 

"  I'd  go  right  to  bed,  if  I  was  you,  Euphemy, 

84 


EUPHEMY 

an'  git  a  good  night's  rest.  You  look  all  fagged 
out.  You  ain't  a-goin'  to  work  so  hard  for  that 
hifalutin'  thing  with  them  red  poppies  all  around 
the  rim  of  her  hat.  You  ought  to  of  see  her 
a-standin'  in  front  of  the  glass  a-primpin'  up  for 
supper !  You'd  laugh.  I  say  you  sha'n't  work 
so  for  her,  Euphemy  —  I  don't  care  how  many 
mortgages  we  got  on  our  house.  Now,  you  go 
to  bed.  I  would  if  I  was  you." 

When  the  girl  had  gone  the  old  woman  blew 
out  the  candle,  snuffed  it  and  lay  down  heavily, 
pulling  the  bed  covers  up  to  her  chin.  Then  she 
spoke  out,  quite  loudly  and  distinctly.  "  Ephrum's 
a  fool,"  she  said,  "if  ever  there  was  one." 

As  the  summer  passed  Euphemy's  problems 
increased.  Ephraim  amazed  her  with  his  "  in 
finite  varieties." 

"  He  does  just  the  things  you  don't  expect  him 
to  do,"  she  thought  one  Sunday  morning  as  he 
walked  briskly  away  to  church  with  the  teacher's 
red  poppies  shining  at  his  shoulder.  "  I  ust  to 
beseech  an'  beseech  him  to  go  to  'leven-o'clock 
service  with  me,  an'  he  wouldn't  budge  an  inch. 
This  makes  the  fourth  time  he's  went  right  hand 
a-runnin'  —  an'  here  now  I've  got  so  much  more 
work  I  can't  go  along  of  'em.  It  beats  me." 

She  grew  vaguely  troubled.  She  did  not  sus 
pect  the  truth,  and  her  aunt  was  afraid  to  en 
lighten  her.  But  she  felt  that  something  had 


EUPHEMY 

come  between  Ephraim  and  herself  ;  nothing 
that  could  be  put  into  words  —  but  still,  some 
thing.  Ephraim  shaving  twice  a  week,  brushing 
his  hair  carefully  before  each  meal,  and  keeping 
his  wristbands  buttoned ;  Ephraim  sitting  on  the 
front  porch  till  midnight  with  no  one  but  that 
shatter-brain  teacher  for  company  —  poor  Eu- 
phemy  being  kept  so  busy  all  day  getting  the 
mortgage  off  the  house  that  night  found  her  so 
tired  that  she  was  forced  to  go  to  bed  with  the 
birds  ;  and  Ephraim  loitering  —  actually  loiter 
ing  ! —  on  the  way  home  from  church  —  these 
were  problems  of  such  complexity  that  she  was 
forced  to  give  them  up. 


One  evening  Euphemy  assisted  her  aunt  to 
bed  earlier  than  usual,  bathing  her  poor  shaking 
arms  with  liniment  until  she  fell  asleep  under 
the  gentle  massage.  She  never  went  down-stairs 
now  after  getting  her  aunt  to  bed,  but  to-night 
something  impelled  her  to  go.  She  went  down 
softly,  not  to  awaken  the  invalid. 

Just  inside  the  door  she  paused  —  and  in  that 
moment  all  her  problems  were  solved. 

"  Why,  you're  not  really  engaged  to  her, 
Ephraim,"  the  teacher  was  saying.  "  Not  to 
Euphemy !  " 

86 


EUPHEMY 

"Yes,  I  am,"  Ephraim  answered,  sullenly. 
"I'm  engaged  to  her  fast  enough.  I  wish  — 

"  Oh,  Ephraim !  "  There  was  a  sob  in  the 
teacher's  voice.  She  threw  her  head  down  upon 
her  arms,  which  were  resting  upon  the  step 
above  her;  this  brought  her  very  close  to 
Ephraim's  knee.  "  Oh,  Ephraim  !  You'd  ought 
to  have  told  me  before !  " 

"  W'y,  why  ought  I  ?  "  said  Ephraim,  stupidly. 
The  teacher's  shoulders  shook  with  sobs.  She 
moved  an  inch  closer  to  his  knee.  After  a  little 
Ephraim  put  out  one  big  hand  and  pulled  her 
sleeve  clumsily.  "Oh,  say  —  why  ought  I  to 
of  told  you  before  ?  " 

She  did  not  reply,  but  presently  she  slipped 
her  hand,  white  and  soft  as  deep-napped  velvet, 
up  to  his  wrist  and  began  fumbling  in  a  heart 
broken  way  with  his  wristbands.  Then  she  said 
jerkily,  with  a  twitch  of  her  shoulders  after  every 
word  : 

"I  —  hope  —  you'll  —  be  happy  —  with  her." 

"W'y,  you  see  —  " 

"She  don't— think  about  anything,  though," 
her  voice  was  muffled   in   sobs,   "excepting  — 
things  to  —  to  —  eat.     She  won't  ever  —  see  — 
that  you  look  like  —  a  s-senator  !     I  know  she 
don't  think  —  as  much  —  of  you  —  as  —  " 

"  As  what  ?  "  demanded  Ephraim.  He  com 
menced  to  swell  out  and  take  on  a  pompous  look. 


EUPHEMY 

"  As  —  as  some  might,"  she  concluded,  lamely. 
She  slid  her  curved  hand  along  his  wrist,  and 
gave  one  little,  childish,  appealing  sob. 

At  once  Ephraim  did  what  she  had  been 
trying  to  tempt  him  to  do  all  summer.  He  took 
her  cool,  flower-like  hand  in  his  big  hot  one. 
Then  he  held  it,  stiffly  and  gingerly,  as  if  he 
didn't  know  exactly  what  to  do  with  it  after  he 
had  got  it. 

Her  soft  fingers  folded  around  his.  She 
moved  a  little  closer  and  laid  her  head  against 
his  knee. 

"  You'll  never  be  —  a  —  s-senator  with  her  — 
for  a  wife,"  she  sobbed.  "  You  need  somebody  — 
to — to  be  proud — of  you,  and  to  —  to  —  love 
you  —  " 

Suddenly  Ephraim  cleared  his  throat.  Then 
he  spoke  up  quite  loudly  and  distinctly : 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  been  in  such  an  all-fired 
hurry  about  askin'  her,"  he  said.  "  I'd  best  of 
waited;  an'  I  might  just  as  well  of,  for  all  of 
anybody  else  a-wantin'  her.  The  only  thing  is  —  " 

All  this  time  Euphemy  had  stood  there  with 
straining  eyes  and  ears.  It  simply  had  not  oc 
curred  to  her  that  she  was  seeing  and  hearing 
what  was  not  intended  for  her.  It  did  not  occur 
to  her  now,  as  she  turned  and  went  groping 
blindly  up-stairs.  Only  —  she  had  strength  to 
bear  no  more.  So  she  went. 
88 


EUPHEMY 

She  got  into  her  room  and  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock ;  then  she  fell,  face  downward,  upon 
her  white,  nun-like  couch. 

"Oh,  dear  God,  dear  God,"  she  prayed,  "be 
with  me  to-night.  I'm  in  awful  trouble,  an'  I 
can't  pray  what  I  want  to  pray,  for  the  words 
all  stop  in  my  throat  and  choke  me  up.  Just 
help  me.  I  can't  never  bear  it  alone.  I  know 
how  many  people  need  You  worse  'n  I  do  — 
poor  mothers  with  little  dead  babies,  and  chil 
dren  with  dead  mothers  —  but,  oh,  dear  Lord, 
I'm  in  awful  trouble,  an'  my  dear  mother  is 
dead,  too.  I  can't  tell  anybody  but  You.  Help 
me  !  " 


The  next  morning  Ephraim  was  harnessing 
the  horses  out  at  the  barn  when  he  heard  a 
soft  sound  behind  him.  He  looked  up  with  a 
start. 

Euphemy  stood  there,  white-faced,  holding 
a  thin  gold  ring  toward  him. 

"  Ephrum,"  she  said,  "I  —  I've  made  up  my 
mind  I  don't  want  to  get  married.  Here's  your 
ring.  Don't  you  think  it's  anything  you've  done, 
Ephrum.  I  don't  want  to  get  married — that's 
all.  I  won't  never  marry  anybody  else.  Don't 
you  ever  think  there's  a  man  on  earth  I'd  ruther 


EUPHEMY 

marry  'n  you,  for  there  ain't,  Ephrum.     I  just 
don't  want  to  marry  anybody." 

Ephraim  moved  his  great  feet  heavily.  His 
eyes  fairly  bulged. 

"  Euphemy  —  what-a-say  ?  " 

She  said  it  all  over  patiently,  but  in  little 
jerks.  There  was  such  an  awful  throbbing  in 
her  throat. 

A  queer  mixture  of  resentment  and  relief 
showed  in  Ephraim's  face.  He  reached  out 
clumsily  and  took  the  ring. 

"Well,  of  course,"  he  said,  stiffly,  "you  don't 
have  to  marry  me  if  you  don't  want  to.  I  guess 
there's  just  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever 's 
been  caught." 

"  I  guess  there  is,  Ephrum." 

He  took  a  long,  angry  look  at  her.  A  girl 
who  did  not  want  to  marry  him  was  a  curiosity 
not  to  be  met  every  day  in  the  year.  He  had 
always  had  an  idea  that  her  eyes  were  gray; 
but  he  discovered  now  that  they  were  a  clear, 
beautiful  brown.  And  —  "The  teacher's  rigger 
ain't  to  be  compared  to  her  'n,"  was  his  swift, 
astonished  reflection. 

"  What  made  you  up  an'  change  your  mind  so 
all  of  a  sudden  ?  "  he  demanded. 

Her  eyes  fell. 

"  Oh,  I  do'  know,  Ephrum.  Don't  let's  talk 
about  it." 

90 


EUPIIEMY 

"Well,  don't  let's,  then.  I  guess  you'll  be 
sorry  for  this,  Euphemy." 

"  Mebbe  I  will,  Ephrum." 

Her  lips  trembled.  She  turned  quickly  and 
went  toward  the  house.  Ephraim  stared  after 
her,  unwillingly  taking  stock  of  her  good  points. 

"  She's  got  a  dimned  good  figger,"  he  mut 
tered,  reluctantly.  "  I  never  see  her  look  so 
dimned  fine  before.  I  wonder  what's  got  into 
her,  anyhow !  " 


As  days  passed  Ephraim's  resentment  in 
creased,  and  his  relief  diminished.  He  set 
to  work  in  dogged  stubbornness  to  discover 
Euphemy's  reason  for  changing  her  mind.  The 
desire  to  do  so  possessed  him  so  strongly  that 
he  even  neglected  to  announce  his  freedom  to 
Miss  Milne.  There  was  a  plenty  of  time,  he 
reflected,  seeing  she  was  so  in  love  with-  him. 
While  he  was  engaged  to  Euphemy  the  teach 
er's  languishing  overtures  had  thrilled  his  pulses 
with  a  delicious  fire,  having  the  incomparable 
flavor  of  forbidden  fruit.  He  had  felt,  with 
much  bitterness,  that  in  plighting  his  troth  so 
hastily  to  Euphemy  he  had  lost  a  priceless  gem. 
But  now  that  he  might  have  the  gem  if  he  would, 
he  began  to  detect  hitherto  unsuspected  flaws 

91 


EUPHEMY 

in  it.  Unconsciously,  Euphemy  had  made  the 
grand  coup  in  the  whist-like  game  of  love.  She 
had  changed  places  with  the  teacher.  She  was 
now  the  forbidden  fruit.  If  the  teacher  had 
been  aware  of  this,  she  would  have  changed  her 
tactics,  for  she  understood  that  it  is  only  when 
a  man  is  not  free  to  make  love  himself  that  he 
can  be  stirred  by  having  it  made  to  him.  At  all 
other  times  it  is  intolerable. 

Certainly  Ephraim  did  not  realize  this  him 
self.  He  intended  to  marry  the  teacher ;  but  of 
course  there  could  be  no  hurry  about  mention 
ing  it  when  she  was  so  obviously  "  agreeable." 

He  studied  Euphemy  with  sullen  patience. 
He  had  always  looked  upon  her  as  a  little  plain, 
domestic  thing,  who  would  make  an  obedient, 
uncomplaining  wife ;  one  who  would  cheerfully 
perform  the  work  of  a  "  help  "  and  a  hired  man, 
'tend  the  "derry,"  wait  upon  his  mother,  give 
him  a  peach  cobbler  with  whipped  cream  for 
supper  every  night,  and  still  have  time  to  raise 
a  nice  family  of  boys  —  girls  were  useless  things. 

Now,  through  much  and  close  observation,  he 
found  the  truth  borne  in  upon  him  that  her  eyes 
were  deep  and  wistful ;  that  her  mouth  was 
sweet,  and  her  "  rigger  "  round  and  full  of  tempt 
ing  curves  that  were  accented  by  the  simple 
gowns  she  wore.  And,  then,  her  cooking! 

One  night  at  supper,  between  great  mouth- 
92 


EUPHEMY 

fuls  of  his  favorite  dessert,  he  said  suddenly 
to  the  teacher,  "  Say,  can  you  make  a  peach 
cobbler?" 

She  gave  him  a  tender,  reproachful  glance. 
"  A  peach  cobbler !  Can  I  make  the  moon  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  might  learn,"  he  said,  stiffly. 
"  Euphemy  Vd  learn  you  in  no  time." 

"Euphemy's  got  enough  to  do  without  learnin* 
people  to  cook  that's  old  enough  to  know  how  if 
they'd  a-wanted,"  spoke  up  his  mother,  glaring 
at  him.  "Euphemy's  learned  to  cook  an'  slave 
to  git  mortgages  off  o'  farms,  instid  o'  foolin' 
her  time  a-sewin'  ruffles  an'  ends  o'  ribbon  all 
over  her !  " 

The  teacher  burst  into  a  merry  laugh.  "  Oh, 
now,  Mis'  Worden,  I'm  afraid  you  don't  like 
my  ruffles." 

"  I  can't  say  I  do,  ma'am.  I  don't  like  the 
red  poppies  a-danglin'  around  your  hat,  neither. 
They're  too  actressy  fer  me." 

Euphemy  jumped  up. 

"  Have  some  more  cobbler,  Aunt  Charlotte," 
she  said,  hurriedly.  "  Oh,  now,  do." 

One  pleasant  Sunday,  coming  home  from 
church  with  the  teacher,  Ephraim  came  to  a 
sudden  standstill  at  the  parlor  door.  On  the 
vivid  red  plush  sofa  sat  Euphemy  with  a  rosy 
face ;  and  close,  very  close,  to  her  in  a  straight, 
high-backed  chair,  sat  Judge  Nelson,  whose  wife 

93 


EUPHEMY 

had  been  such  a  famous  cook  and  housekeeper, 
and  who  had  been  dead  only  a  year.  He  owned 
the  largest  farm  and  had  the  finest  house  in  the 
county.  He  sat  with  his  long  black  coat-tails 
hanging  straight  down  on  both  sides  of  his  chair 
and  the  tips  of  all  his  fingers  set  stiffly  together 
in  a  conical  shape  above  his  knees. 

Euphemy  got  up  quickly  and  edged  towards 
the  door. 

"  Oh,  you  back,  Ephrum  ?  Judge  Nelson's 
come  to  spen'  the  day.  You  entertain  him 
while  I  get  dinner,  will  you  ?" 

Ephraim  grunted.  The  Judge  looked  after 
her  with  a  beautiful  beam  in  his  eye. 

"  An'  after  dinner,  Miss  Euphemy,"  he  said 
blandly,  lifting  his  voice,  "  we'll  take  a  little 
buggy-ride,  if  you're  agreeable.  You've  never 
see  my  house,  have  you  ?  I  want  that  you 
should  see  it.  Well,  Ephraim  ?  " 

"  How  are  you?  "  said  Ephraim,  sullenly. 

"  Been  to  meetin'  ?  " 

"  Oouh-hoouh." 

"  Took  the  teacher,  aigh  ?  " 

"  Oouh-hoouh." 

"  Say,  Ephraim  "  —the  Judge  leaned  forward 
confidentially  —  "I  used  to  think  you  an'  Eu 
phemy  had  settled  '  things ;  my  wife  always 
thought  so,  an'  all  the  young  fellows  around 
here  thought  so.  That's  the  reason  they  didn't 

94 


EUPHEMY 

offer  to  beau  her  any;  but  since  you've  been 
a-beauin'  the  teacher  they're  all  of  'em  wild  to 
get  Euphemy.  She  could  have  her  pick  any 
minute."  Then  he  colored  up.  "  I  don't  mean 
to  let  'em,  though ;  there  ain't  a  girl  in  the  whole 
county  got  a  figure  "like  hers.  There  ain't  a 
one  so  qualified  to  be  a  judge's  wife." 

After  dinner  the  Judge  lifted  Euphemy  care 
fully  into  his  buggy  and  drove  away.  He  had 
a  fine  buggy  and  a  handsome  team. 

Ephraim's  breast  swelled  with  rage. 

"  Hoouh  !  "  he  hissed  out.  "  Dimned  old  ga 
loot  !  Guess  she  won't  have  him  if  she  wouldn't 
have  me ! "  But  his  heart  quailed.  "  Best 
house  an'  farm  in  the  county,"  he  muttered,  bit 
terly.  "An'  horses  an'  cows  !  An'  he  a  judge. 
I  reckon  if  she's  good  enough  for  a  judge  she'd 
of  been  good  enough  for  a  senator.  I'd  like  to 
know  what  ailded  her  when  she  changed  her 
mind." 

He  heard  a  springing  step  and  a  flutter  of 
flounces  on  the  stairs.  He  gave  a  start  and 
made  for  the  barn. 

"  Ephraim,"  called  the  teacher,  tenderly,  but 
he  walked  right  on  as  if  he  had  not  heard. 

There  followed  a  wretched  month  for  poor 
Ephraim.  The  old  meek  Euphemy,  unnoticed 
and  unfeted,  ready  to  run  like  a  dog  at  his  bid 
ding,  was  no  more ;  in  her  place  had  arisen  a 

95 


EUPHEMY 

sweet,  blushing  girl,  with  a  judge  at  her  feet 
and  a  countyful  of  admirers  coming  to  take  her 
buggy-riding  or  to  apple-bees.  Ephraim  looked 
on  in  grim  silence.  Wasted  were  the  red  pop 
pies  and  the  languishing  glances. 

"Euphemy's  the  belle  o'  the  county,"  an 
nounced  his  mother,  with  a  triumphant  crow 
deep  in  her  throat.  "  I  never  see  a  girl  come 
out  so  an'  git  so  pretty.  She  never  had  any 
thing  made  of  her  before  's  the  reason.  The 
Judge  is  just  a-dyin'  t'  git  her  —  goes  a-moonin' 
around  like  a  sick  ca'f.  They're  all  a-runnin' 
after  her,  but  he's  ahead.  He  keeps  a-hintin' 
offul  strong  about  travellin'  through  Europe. 
Land  knows  he's  rich  enough.  Euphemy  always 
was  wild  to  travel.  The  Judge  —  " 

"  Dimn  the  Judge ! "  hissed  out  Ephraim. 
He  jammed  a  chair  against  the  wall  and  flung 
himself  out  of  the  kitchen. 

All  this  time  the  teacher,  somewhat  dismayed, 
was  playing  her  cards  cautiously ;  and  poor  Eu 
phemy  was  successfully  concealing  an  aching 
heart.  Mrs.  Worden  looked  on  with  the  fingers 
of  her  right  hand  laid  between  the  knuckles  of 
her  left,  and  a  grim  smile  weighing  down  her 
mouth. 

At  last  a  soft  moonlit  night  came.  Euphemy 
went  buggy-riding  with  the  Judge.  They  did 
not  return  till  eleven  o'clock.  They  lingered  at 


EUPHEMY 

the  gate  a  little  while,  then  the  Judge  drove 
away.  Euphemy  came  slowly  up  the  path  alone. 
Ephraim  was  sitting  on  the  front  steps. 

"  Euphemy !  " 

"  How,  Ephrum  ?  " 

"  Are  you  a-goin'  to  marry  that  galoot  ? " 

"  If  you  mean  the  Judge,"  said  Euphemy,  with 
dignity,  "  I  don't  know.  He's  asked  an'  asked, 
an'  I  have  to  make  up  my  mind  to-morrow  night. 
It's  awful  hard.  I  —  don't  —  love  him  just  as 
I'd  ought;  but  he'd  be  good  to  me,  an'  — an'  — 
after  you  get  married  I  won't  have  anywheres 
to  go  to.  He'll  let  me  take  your  mother  an'  wait 
on  her  's  long  as  she  lives.  He's  offul  good." 

"  He's  an  angel,  ain't  he  ?  "  snarled  Ephraim. 
"  Now,  let  me  tell  you  that  I've  been  asked  an' 
asked,  too,  an'  I've  got  to  make  up  my  mind. 
An'  what  I  do  depends  on  what  you  do." 

"  Ephrum !  "  cried  Euphemy,  with  a  burst  of 
passionate  reproach.  "  What  do  you  want  to  talk 
that  way  for  ?  Oh,  Ephrum,  I  heard  ev'ry  word 
you  said  to  the  teacher  out  here  that  night  — 
when  you  wished  you  hadn't  been  in  such  a  hurry 
about  askin'  me  ! " 

«  YOU  —  did  ?     Euphemy  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  did.  I  didn't  mean  to,  but  I  couldn't 
help  it" 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  Ephraim  said 
suddenly : 

97 


EUPHEMY 

"  Euphemy,  was  that  what  ailded  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  was,  Ephrum." 

"  Hoouh  !  "  He  pondered  a  time  silently. 
"  Euphemy,  I  was  an  all-fired  fool.  I'm  begin- 
nin'  to  see  through  her  now.  I  don't  wonder 
you  flared  up  an'  wouldn't  marry  me.  I've  been 
tryin'  to  make  out  what  ailded  you.  That's  it, 
aigh  ?  Well,  now,  Euphemy,  I  wouldn't  marry 
her  if  she  was  the  only  woman  on  earth.  I  ain't 
got  a  fine  farm  an'  house,  or  a  horse  an'  buggy, 
an'  I  can't  take  you  around  a-travellin',  but  I'd 
rather  marry  you  'n  any  girl  alive." 

"  Ephrum  !  "  Her  voice  trembled.  "  Don't 
you  say  that  unless  you're  sure." 

"Well,  I'm  sure." 

"  Don't  you  say  that  if  you  think  you'd  ever 
change  your  mind  ag'in.  It  'u'd  —  it  Vd  —  kill 
me." 

"  I  never  will.  I've  found  her  out  now.  If 
you  say  so,  we'll  git  married  reel  soon." 

Euphemy  trembled  closer  to  him.  Sudden  joy 
gave  her  courage. 

"Ephrum,"  she  faltered,  "couldn't  you  — 
couldn't  you  —  kiss  me  ? " 

Ephraim  gave  a  start. 

"  What-a-say,  Euphemy  ?  " 

"  I  say  —  couldn't  you  —  kiss  me  ?  " 

"W'y,  yes,"  said  Ephraim,  in  the  tone  he 
would  have  used  if  she  had  asked  him  to  light 
98 


EUPHEMY 

a  candle.  He  hesitated,  then  stooped  and  gave 
her  a  brief,  stubby  kiss. 

"  It's  a-gittin'  latish,"  he  said.     "  Let's  go  in." 

He  arose  and  entered  the  house,  Euphemy 
meekly  following  him.  His  chest  swelled  out 
superbly  as  .he  went  up  the  stairs. 

"  Hoouh !  "  he  thought.  "  I  should  smile  if  I 
couldn't  cut  that  galoot  out !  " 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  he  paused. 

"Euphemy!'1 

"  How,  Ephrum  ? "  She  slipped  to  his  side  like 
a  bird  in  the  darkness.  Was  he  going  to  kiss  her 
of  his  own  desire  ?  "  What-a-say,  Ephrum  ?  " 

"  W'y,  I  wish  you'd  have  some  saleratus  bis 
cuits  fer  breakfast.  You  ain't  had  any  fer  a 
coon's  age." 


99 


THE   PITY  OF   IT 


THE   PITY   OF   IT 

"  Minervy  !  Minervy  !  Yuh  got  them  ca'ves 
up  ? " 

"  No'm;  not  yet." 

"Well,  clear  out.  High  time.  It's  time  fer 
your  paw  to  be  back  from  town.  I'd  be  ashamed 
to  go  a-puttin'  things  off  so,  an'  a-curlin'  my 
hair  to  a  crisp  with  a  red-hot  iron !  Primp ! 
M.y-0  f  What's  the  use  in  primpin'  so?  If 
Doug  Hodges  comes  home  with  your  paw  to 
spend  Christmas,  he'll  be  apt  to  find  out  your 
hair  don't  curl  of  itself.  Mercy,  child !  Yuh 
didn't  git  a  good  curl  on  that  one  at  the  back  o' 
your  neck.  Yuh  might  as  well  do  't  right  while 
you're  a-doin'  it.  I'd  laff  if  I  couldn't  curl  my 
hair  evener  'n  that,  an'  expectin'  a  beau  to  come 
an'  spend  Christmas !  Take  an'  give  me  them 
tongs." 

Minerva  handed  her  mother  the  -curling-iron 
with  a  sigh  of  mingled  relief  and  exhaustion. 
She  was  a  slim,  sallow-complexioned  girl,  with 
large,  irregular  features.  She  had  a  weak  little 
stoop  which  made  her  shoulder-blades  stand  out 
sharply.  Her  eyes,  alone,  were  beautiful.  They 
103 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

were  large  and  brown,  with  golden  glints  in  their 
velvet  depths.  They  were  wholly  out  of  har 
mony  with  her  sickly  face  and  poor  figure. 

Her  mother  gave  her  head  a  sharp  push  and 
it  dropped  forward  in  limp  obedience  on  her 
long  neck. 

11  There ! "  said  her  mother,  in  the  vigorous 
tone  with  which  she  would  have  said  "so!"  to 
a  cow.  "  Bend  the  back  of  your  neck  out  so  's 
I  can  git  the  tongs  around  this  lock." 

The  girl  stretched  her  neck  further  in  a  futile 
attempt  to  perform  this  impossible  feat. 

"Oh,  my,  there!  Don't  stick  your  neck  out 
that  way  or  your  head'll  roll  off  in  the  cel 
lar,"  exclaimed  her  mother,  with  a  sigh  of  im 
patience.  "  Yuh  never  can  do  things  like  other 
girls.  There's  Lily  Belle  McNamara  now  — 
why  can't  yuh  pattern  after  her  a  little  ?  Her 
hair's  always  curled  jest  as  pretty  at  the  back 
o'  her  head  's  on  the  forehead.  She  don't  stick 
out  her  shoulder-blades  the  way  you  do  yours, 
neither.  It  makes  a  body  feel  off ul  to  see  yuh 
stooped  over  so !  Lily  Belle  McNamara  holds 
herself  up  like  an  arrer ;  everybody  looks  when 
she  goes  up  the  aisle  at  meetin'.  She  always 
looks  jest  as  neat  as  a  new  tin  pan,  too.  I  see 
her  once  jest  after  she'd  wed  out  a  big  redish- 
bed,  an'  my-<9  /  She  didn't  have  a  speck  o' 
dirt  on  her.  Look-ee !  there  goes  the  minister, 
104 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

all  primped  up  in  his  best,  with  his  chin  clean 
shaved !  I  bet  he's  a-goin'  down  to  see  the 
Widow  Peters.  I  bet." 

Mrs.  Bunt  gave  the  iron  a  jerk,  releasing  a 
small,  bobby  curl  on  the  back  of  Minerva's 
bended  neck.  Two  strides  took  her  to  the  win 
dow.  She  pulled  the  green  shade  cautiously 
aside  and  peered  out.  Her  skin  wrinkled  up 
around  her  narrowed  eyes. 

"  Yes,  sir-ee  !  "  she  announced,  triumphantly, 
a  moment  later.  "  If  he  ain't,  yuh  may  shoot 
me !  Turned  right  down  the  Northwest  Diago 
nal,  as  bold  as  brass,  without  so  much  as  lookin' 
around  to  see  'f  anybody  see  him.  He  must  be 
pushed.  His  wife  ain't  dead  a  year  —  an'  him 
with  his  chin  shaved  up  that  way !  I  bet  the 
mournin'  band's  off  o'  his  hat  a'ready.  I  reckon 
that's  where  he's  a-goin'  to  dinner  to-morrow. 
I  ast  him  here,  an'  he  said  he  had  an  invite 
ahead  o'  me.  She  must  of  ast  him  the  minute 
he  got  back  from  his  wife's  fun'ral !  I  see  her 
'n  the  Rialty  in  Seattle,  the  other  day,  a-buyin' 
a  lavender  dress  !  " 

"  I'd  like  to  have  a  lavender  dress,"  spoke  up 
Minerva,  suddenly,  with  a  little  quaver. 

"A  —  lavender  —  dress  !  For  pity's  sake  ! 
What  do  yuh  want  of  a  lavender  dress,  com 
plected  like  you  ? " 

"  I  don't  see  why  not." 
105 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

"  You  don't  see  why  not,  aigh  ?  W'y,  you'd 
look  like  sole-leather." 

There  was  a  silence.  Another  little  bobby 
curl  nestled  beside  the  first  on  Minerva's  neck. 
Presently  she  said,  and  there  was  a  break  in 
her  thin  voice  —  "What  do  yuh  think  I'd  look 
best  in,  then,  ma  ?  " 

"W'y,  I  do'  know."  She  reflected  with 
thoughtful  eyes.  "Let's  see."  She  burst  out 
laughing  suddenly  in  comfortable  mirth.  "  If 
yuh  want  fax,  Minervy,  I  do'  know  's  there's 
any  best  to  yuh.  The  Lord  didn't  do  overly 
much  fer  yuh  in  the  way  o'  looks.  Lily  Belle 
McNa  —  " 

"  I  guess,  if  you've  done  curlin'  up  my  hair,  ma, 
I'll  take  an'  get  the  ca'ves  up,"  said  Minerva. 
There  was  a  hurt  look  on  her  face. 

"All  right.  It's  high  time.  Wastin'  your 
time  so,  a-curlin'  your  hair !  Lily  Belle  —  " 

Minerva  slipped  out  of  the  room  and  closed 
the  door.  She  coughed  as  she  went. 

The  Bunt  ranch  was  on  one  of  the  large  islands 
of  Puget  Sound.  The  boats  came  up  through 
a  long  blue  arm  that  almost  divided  the  island. 
It  was  a  beautiful  thing  to  see  —  their  coming 
in ;  the  white  line  of  smoke  winding  around  the 
firred  crests  of  the  smaller  islands,  and  later  the 
glistening  curves  of  the  boats  themselves,  as 
they  came  throbbing  up  the  narrow  water  ave- 
106 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

nue,  floored  with  blue  and  ceiled  with  blue  and 
walled  with  sombre  green.  Here  and  there 
rich  fruit  and  vegetable  farms  sloped  down  to 
the  water  from  their  dark  forest  background. 
They  were  green  with  clover  and  fall-sown 
wheat,  although  it  was  the  day  before  Christmas. 

Minerva  threw  a  shawl  over  her  head  to  pro 
tect  her  new  curls  from  the  ravages  of  the  salt 
wind,  and  ran  down  the  narrow  path  to  the 
pasture.  There  had  been  no  heavy  frosts  yet, 
and  the  young  brakes  were  bravely  putting  up 
their  curved  heads,  pushing  the  moist  earth 
into  little  cones  around  them. 

The  willows  were  hanging  out  their  silver 
tassels ;  the  wild  eglantine  was  in  leaf.  In 
damp  places  the  skunk-cabbage  had  spread 
anew  its  broad  leaves,  from  whose  velvet  depths 
would,  later  on,  reach  beautiful  golden  hands 
bearing  pale,  early  torches  in  their  hollowed 
palms. 

It  was  sunset.  The  sky  burned  yellow  as 
brass.  Light,  saffron-hued  clouds  went  march 
ing  down  the  West.  The  sea  swelled  up  in 
strong,  even  waves.  The  tall  dark  firs  bowed 
and  lifted  in  the  wind.  All  nature  throbbed 
with  a  fierce,  rhythmic  movement. 

Minerva  stooped  by  a  sheltered  bank,  and 
plucked  a  handful  of  "  star  "  flowers.  "  Poor, 
little  pale  things/'  she  said.  "They've  come 
107 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

too  early ;  the  frost  or  the  cold  rain'll  kill  'em, 
sure." 

She  pinned  them  on  her  flat  breast,  and  went 
on.  She  let  down  the  bars,  and  the  calves  came 
leaping  through  from  the  pasture.  She  stood 
for  a  few  moments  looking  down  the  blue  arm 
with  a  soft  light  in  her  eyes.  Then  a  faint  trail 
of  smoke  drifted  slowly  into  view.  She  started 
from  her  leaning  posture,  and  a  rich  glow 
burned  over  her  face. 

She  put  up  the  bars  with  trembling  hands 
and  hastened  home. 

It  was  a  full  hour  before  the  boat  glided  into 
the  Bunt  pier,  which  had  been  most  fearfully 
and  wonderfully  fashioned  out  of  "  shakes." 

Minerva  was  assisting  in  the  preparation  of 
supper. 

"  Has  he  come  with  your  pa  ? "  asked  her 
mother,  entering  the  kitchen ;  for  those  two 
there  was  only  one  "  he  "  on  earth. 

"  I  do'  know,"  said  Minerva,  fumbling  about 
aimlessly.  "  I  ain't  looked." 

"Yuh  ain't  looked,  aigh  ?  It's  a  pity  yuh 
ain't  looked  !  Why,  what  ails  yuh  ?  Yuh  go 
around  as  if  yuh  was  a-steppin'  on  eggs.  What 
makes  yuh  ac'  the  dunce  so  ?  It  ain't  the  first 
time  he's  come,  by  a  jugful.  Goosehead ! " 

"  D'  yuh  want  this  here  apple-butter  for  sup 
per,  ma  ? " 

108 


THE   PITY    OF    IT 

"  Yes,  I  want  that  there  apple-butter  for  sup 
per —  if  he's  come.  Why  don't  choo  look  out 
an'  see  if  he's  come  ? " 

"  I  can't,"  said  poor  Minerva,  faintly.  "  I'm 
so  afraid  he  ain't  come.  You  look,  ma." 

"  If  he  ain't  come,"  said  Mrs.  Bunt,  deri 
sively,  setting  herself  broadly  before  the  win 
dow,  4<  I  reckon  yuh'll  have  the  creepin'  paralysis 
come  on  an'  stay  on  till  he  does  come.  Well, 
he's  come.  He's  all  fixed  up.  He's  finer 
lookin'  'n  ever.  There  ain't  a  young  man  on 
the  Sound  got  a  better  pair  o'  legs  'n  his'n," 
she  added,  with  pride.  "  It's  a  wonder  Lily 
Belle  McNamara  ain't  set  her  cap  at  him, 
seein's  he's  been  teachin'  school  so  clost  to 
her  pa's.  Not  that  it  'u'd  do  her  any  good. 
He  never'd  dare  throw  off  on  yuh,  after  his 
mother  an'  me  fixed  it  all  up  of  ourselves." 

"Well,  I'd  dare  — if  he  wanted  Lily  Belle 
McNamara,  or  Lily  Belle  Anything  else,"  said 
Minerva,  with  a  quick,  unexpected  flash  in  her 
eyes. 

"Yuh  needn't  to  explode  so.  They're  right 
here  't  the  house.  All  is,"  she  added,  with  a 
stern  look  as  she  went  to  the  door,  "  I  sh'u'd 
jest  like  to  see  him  try  to  throw  off  on  yuh.  I'd 
show  him  pretty  quick  that  he  c'u'dn't  come  it." 
She  opened  the  door.  "  Land  o'  Love  an' 
Goshen !  Yuh  come,  did  yuh  ?  It's  a  cure  for 
109 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

sore  eyes  to  see  yuh,  Doug  Hodges.  Come 
right  in.  Never  mind  your  feet.  Whose  trunk 
was  that  come  in  on  the  boat  with  yuh  ? " 

"How?" 

"  I  say,  whose  trunk  was  that  come  in  on  the 
boat  with  yuh  ?  Yuh  gone  deef  ?  " 

"Trunk?     I  do'  know." 

"Well,  come  in.  Here's  Minervy  a-waitin' 
to  see  yuh." 

Minerva  came  forward,  scarlet-faced,  and 
shook  hands  limply.  Her  hand  was  like  a 
bird's  claw. 

The  young  man's  face  reflected  the  scarlet  of 
hers. 

"Well,  Minervy,"  he  said,  "you  gettin' 
supper  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Minerva,  with  quivering 
politeness. 

He  sat  down  and  slid  his  chair  to  the  window 
with  a  squeak.  "It's  a-goin'  to  be  a  nice 
Christmas." 

"It  is  so." 

"  It's  lots  warmer  'n  usual." 

"Yes,  it  is  so." 

There  was  a  beautiful  happiness  now  on 
Minerva's  face,  which  had  been  so  pale  and 
anxious  about  the  time  the  boat  landed,  but  it 
was  a  happiness  that  had  something  pathetic 
in  it. 

no 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

The  young  man  did  not  seem  to  be  overbur 
dened  with  joy.  He  looked  embarrassed  and  ill 
at  ease.  His  weak  blue  eyes  shifted  away  from 
Mrs.  Bunt's  steady,  asking  look. 

Finally  she  said,  dryly,  as  she  took  a  sip 
of  the  boiling  gravy  to  test  its  seasoning  — 
"  What's  the  matter  of  yuh,  Doug  ?  " 

He  gave  a  jump. 

"  Matter?     Nothin'.     Why?" 

"  Yuh  look  so.  B'en  teachin*  school  over 
close  to  McNamara's,  ain't  choo  ?  " 

"Yes'm."     The  red  came  back  to  his  face. 

"  Hunh !  " 

There  was  a  silence.  Minerva  was  stepping 
around  spryly.  Now  and  then  she  looked  at 
him  with  shining  eyes.  The  little  curls  were 
bobbing  coquettishly  on  the  back  of  her  neck 
and  on  her  brow.  The  remainder  of  her  hair 
was  twisted  into  a  tight  wisp.  She  wore  a  dull 
green,  badly  fitting  dress,  with  funny  bows  of 
ribbon  sewed  over  it.  Once  the  young  man 
gave  her  a  long  searching  look ;  then,  without 
the  slightest  change  of  countenance,  he  turned 
his  eyes  toward  the  boat  just  drawing  away  from 
the  pier. 

Mrs.  Bunt  poured  the  gravy  into  a  bowl, 
scraping  the  pan  dexterously  with  a  tin  spoon. 

"Yuh  know  Lily  Belle?" 

The  young  fellow  cleared  his  throat. 
in 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

"Ye-es'm." 

"  Supper's  all  ready.  Set  up.  Pa!  Oh,  pa! 
Why  don't  choo  come  to  supper  ?  I  don't  see 
where  that  trunk's  a-goin'  to.  Minervy,  is  it  still 
a-settin'  down  there  on  the  worf?" 

Minerva  craned  her  long  neck. 

"Yes'm." 

Mrs.  Bunt  sighed  helplessly.  "  It  beats  me. 
Well,  set  up  before  everything  gets  cold.  Oh, 
my  land  !  I  bet  it's  the  Widow  Peters's  noo  out 
fit  !  It  just  struck  me  all  of  a  sudden." 

"  I  hear  yesterday  that  her  'n  the  minister  was 
a-goin'  to  get  married,"  said  Mr.  Bunt. 

"  I  bet." 

After  supper  Mr.  Bunt  went  out  to  the  barn 
to  "  fodder"  the  cattle.  The  guest  arose  to  ac 
company  him,  but  Mrs.  Bunt  pointed  with  a  large, 
crooked  finger  to  the  sitting-room.  "  You  go  in 
an'  set  down.  I'll  come  in  an'  talk  to  yuh  while 
Minervy  reds  up  the  dishes." 

He  went  in  with  an  unwilling  air  and  sat  down 
by  the  big  fireplace.  Mrs.  Bunt  closed  the  door 
and  pulled  her  chair  up  close  to  him. 

There  was  a  clatter  of  dishes.  Minervalifted  up 
her  weak,  cracked  voice,  and  commenced  to  sing : 

"  Last  night  there  were  four  Marys, 
To-night  there'll  be  but  three ; 
There  was  Mary  Seaton  and  Mary  Beaton, 
And  Mary  Carmichael  and  me  ! " 


112 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

"  I  wish  she  w'u'dn't  sing  that  mournful  thing 
so,"  said  her  mother.  "  It  makes  somethin'  come 
up  in  my  win'pipe.  She  seems  to  lean  to  mourn 
ful  songs  — graveyardy,  I  call  'em.  She's  turra- 
ble  happy  because  yuh  come  to  stay  Christmas, 
Doug." 

He  stirred  uneasily.     "  That  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  so.  You're  the  only  thing  she's 
ever  had  to  be  happy  over.  B'en  stuck  here  on 
this  island  ever  sence  she  was  knee-high  to  a 
grasshopper.  If  anything  happened  to  yuh,  I 
guess  it  'u'd  kill  her  —  there  ain't  much  to  her, 
with  that  cough  o'  her  'n.  How  old  be  yuh  now  ? " 

"Twenty-five." 

"  Hunh  !  Most  time  yuh  was  a-settlin'  down, 
ain't  it?" 

Young  Hodges  swallowed  before  he  spoke. 
He  was  very  pale.  He  took  up  the  poker  and 
commenced  stirring  the  red  coals. 

"  I  expect  so." 

"  Yuh've  been  engaged  to  Minervy  now  close 
onto  four  year." 

There  was  no  reply. 

"Ain't  yuh?" 

"Yes'm." 

"Well,  why  don't  yuh  settle  down  ? " 

Perspiration  began  to  bead  upon  his  brow. 
He  realized  that  the  awful  ordeal,  the  mere  an 
ticipation  of  which  has  given  sleepless  nights 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

to  more  than  one  young  man,  was  upon  him. 
He  was  being  asked  his  "  intentions." 

"  I  do'  know,"  he  said,  helplessly.  "  I  do' 
know  just  why  I  don't,  Mis'  Bunt." 

"  Well,  yuh'd  best  think  about  it.  Why  don't 
yuh  live  on  your  ranch  instid  o'  gaddin'  to  the 
other  side  o'  the  island  to  teach  school  ?  Yuh'd 
make  more." 

"Maybe  I  would." 

"  May  bees  don't  fly  in  December.  How's 
Lily  Belle  McNamara  ?  " 

"  She's  well." 

He  punched  the  fire  till  the  sparks  sputtered 
up  the  chimney  in  a  scarlet  cloud. 

"Hunh!" 

"  She  —  she  —  she's  comin'  over  here  to 
morrow." 

"  Over  where  ?  " 

"  Over  here." 

"  Here  ?     Here?     To  our  house  ?  " 

"  Ye-es'm." 

"  What's  she  comin'  here  for  ?  " 

"To  spend  Christmas,  I  s'pose." 

"  People  don't  go  to  places  to  spend  Christmas 
without  an  invite."  There  was  an  awful  stern 
ness  in  Mrs.  Bunt's  voice. 

"Well,  I  — I  give  her  an  invite." 

"Yuh    did?     Yuh  ast   her   to  come  here   to 
spend  Christmas  ?     What  made  yuh  ?  " 
114 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

"  I  thought  maybe  you'd  like  to  have  her." 

"Yuh  thought  maybe  I'd  like  to  have  her, 
hunh  ? "  Mrs.  Bunt's  tone  was  withering. 
"Well,  when  I  want  anybody  I've  got  enough 
gum'tion  to  ask  'em  of  myself.  I  ain't  any 
body's  skim-milk  —  an'  my  girl  ain't,  neither." 

The  door  was  opened  hesitatingly  and  Minerva 
entered. 

"  I  guess  I'm  all  through,  ma." 

"Well."  Mrs.  Bunt  got  up  slowly.  "Go 
back  an'  put  a  stick  o'  wood  in  the  stove." 

As  the  door  closed  she  fronted  the  miserable- 
faced  young  man  again. 

"  Seein's  yuh  can't  screw  up  courage  to  set 
the  day,  Doug,"  she  said,  with  cheerful  affa 
bility,  "  I'll  help  yuh  out.  We'll  call  it  the  first 
day  o'  May ;  an'  if  yuh  don't  walk  up  to  the 
church  with  Minervy  on  that  day,  I'll  take  that 
big  ranch  o'  your  'n  for  breach  o'  promise." 

Minerva  came  in  again,  and  Mrs.  Bunt  retired 
with  a  parting  injunction  :  "  Don't  set  up  later  'n 
twelve,  yuh  gooseheads,  you  !  " 


Miss  Lily  Belle  McNamara  arrived  on  the 
noon  boat.  Young  Hodges  went  down  to  meet 
her.  Minerva  and  her  mother  stood  at  the  win 
dow  watching  them  climb  the  hill. 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

"  She's  got  a  noo  hat,"  announced  Mrs.  Bunt, 
grimly. 

"It's  offul  pretty;  got  purple  grapes  on  't. 
They're  the  latest  style.  She  must  of  got  it  in 
Seattle." 

"Well,  I  wish  yuh  held  your  head  up  the  way 
she  does !  "  The  glow  went  out  of  Minerva's 
face.  "  She's  got  on  a  noo  dress,  too.  I'll  be 
switched  if  it  ain't  got  velvet  panels  up  the 
sides  !  There  —  lookee  !  What  a  straight  up- 
an'-down  back  she's  got  —  no  wonder  she  looks 
stylish."  She  turned  and  gave  a  dissatisfied 
look  at  Minerva's  shoulders.  "  Why  can't  choo 
hold  yourself  up  ?  Stand  an'  stoop  !  She  wears 
her  dresses  mighty  short." 

"She's  got  pretty  ankles,"  said  poor  Minerva, 
with  a  sigh  that  had  no  malice. 

There  was  sufficient  woman  in  her  to  envy  the 
ankles  far  more  than  the  straight  up-and-down 
back. 

She  went  to  the  door  slowly. 

"That  choo,  Lily  Belle?"  she  said,  with  a 
struggle  to  be  cordial.  "  I'm  reel  glad  yuh 
come.  Why,  Doug,  you're  offul  red  in  the  face 
—  I  never  see  you  so  red  before." 

"It's  hot  work  climbin'  the  hill,"  said  her 
mother,  dryly. 

"  It  is  so,"  said  Lily  Belle,  gayly.  "  I'm  ready 
to  drop- — so  I  guess  I  will."  She  sunk,  laugh- 
116 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

ing,  upon  a  chair.  "My,  I  forgot  to  say  'Merry 
Christmas ! ' " 

She  sat  in  a  beautiful  glow  of  health  and  hap 
piness,  and  Doug  Hodges  stood  looking  down 
upon  her,  gloating  over  her  beauty. 

As  he  so  stood,  Minerva's  eyes  went  to  his 
face  and  dwelt  there  at  first  with  gentlest  love, 
only ;  but  later  with  something  else  that  sent 
the  blood  away  from  her  plain  face. 

"Well,  don't  set  in  the  latching,"  said  Mrs. 
Bunt.  "  There's  a  fire  'n  the  settin'-room.  Step 
right  in." 

Lily  Belle  cast  a  glance  at  Minerva's  old  low- 
backed  organ  as  she  passed.  "  Oh,  Minervy, 
can  you  play  the  '  Prize  Banner  Quickstep  ? '  " 

"  No,  I  wish  I  c'u'd." 

"Well,  I  can  — I've  just  learned  it." 

"  Minervy  can  play  '  Angel  Voices  in  the 
Night,' "  announced  Mrs.  Bunt,  proud  as  a  pea 
cock.  "It's  lots  harder  'n  'the  Prize  Banner.' 
It's  full  of  little  grace  notes.  Yuh  can't  play  it, 
can  you  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Lily  Belle,  pleasantly;  "I 
could  play  it  three  year  ago." 

She  sat  down  at  the  organ  and  commenced 
playing  something  light  and  merry.  She  played 
with  spirit  and  grace,  making  the  old  instrument 
turn  out  jigs  and  hornpipes  far  beneath  its  dig 
nity.  Doug  Hodges  stood  with  his  arms  folded, 
117 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

observing  her  intently.  Minerva  stood  with  her 
back  to  the  window ;  her  eyes  never  moved  from 
his  face.  She  was  very  pale.  She  breathed 
slowly  and  noiselessly  ;  her  lips  were  parted. 
Mrs.  Bunt  watched  all  three,  impartially. 

Suddenly  Minerva  commenced  coughing. 
Doug  Hodges  gave  her  a  frowning  look  —  one 
that  asked  with  the  impatience  of  a  ten  years' 
husband  if  she  couldn't  wait  till  the  "  Rochester 
Schottische  "  was  finished.  She  put  her  hand 
on  her  chest  and,  still  coughing,  slipped  out  of 
the  room. 

Her  mother  gloomed  after  her  for  a  moment; 
then  she  arose  and  followed  her. 

The  Christmas  dinner  was  eaten  solemnly  at 
three  o'clock.  There  was  a  thick  soup,  made  of 
canned  oysters,  with  little  rings  of  butter  float 
ing  on  top  ;  there  were  two  big  roasted  chickens 
with  sage  dressing ;  a  dome  of  mashed  potato 
with  a  pool  of  melted  butter  in  its  sunken  cra 
ter  ;  stewed  pumpkins,  stewed  corn,  pickled 
peaches  and  beans,  brown  gravy,  mince  pie  and 
floating  island,  and  crab-apple  jelly  —  all  trem 
bling  and  glowing  upon  the  table  at  the  same 
time. 

Minerva  served  her  guests  faithfully ;  but  she 
ate  little  herself. 

When  the  dishes  had  been  washed  and  the 
floor  swept,  Mrs.  Bunt  stood  the  broom  up  stiffly 
118 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

behind  the  kitchen  door,  while  Minerva  hung 
the  dish-pan  out  on  the  porch  and  stretched  the 
dish-cloth  smoothly  over  it. 

"  Now,  Lily  Belle,"  said  Mrs.  Bunt,  firmly, 
pulling  down  her  sleeves,  "  we'll  go  in  the  set- 
tin'-room.  Doug  an'  Minervy's  a-goin'  to  take 
a  walk." 

"  I'd  just  as  soon  go  along  with  'em,  Mis' 
Bunt." 

"Well,  I  guess  they'd  like, to  be  alone  a  leetle 
while  —  on  Christmas,  too." 

"  We'd  just  as  soon  have  her  along  of  us," 
spoke  up  the  young  man,  boldly,  with  a  red  face. 

"  Well,  she'll  set  here  with  me.  That's  set 
tled.  Yuh  'n  Minervy  go  on  now.  I'd  laff  if 
I'd  have  anybody  tag  me  an'  my  girl  around  all 
day,  if  I  was  a  young  man." 

"  Why,  the  idee  !  "  fluttered  Lily  Belle. 

"  Well,  I  w'u'd.  I'd  laff."  She  passed  near 
Minerva.  "The  day's  all  set,"  she  said  in  a 
stern  whisper.  "  Has  he  told  yuh  ?  It's  the 
first  day  o'  May." 

The  girl's  large  eyes  glowed  out  of  her  white 
face. 

"  Who  set  it  ?  " 

"I  did." 

The  sunset  was  drawing  its  long  beautiful 
ribbons  out  of  the  beryl  skies  and  coiling  them 
low  in  the  west  in  splendid  loops  of  color.  A 
119 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

strong  wind  was  blowing  up  the  arm;  the  waves 
pounded  and  broke  upon  the  rocks. 

Minerva  walked  silently  by  her  lover's  side. 
Once  she  shivered  and  drew  her  cape  closer 
about  her  chest.  Several  times  she  coughed. 

"  You've  got  a  cold,  ain't  choo  ? "  said  the 
young  man  at  last,  indifferently. 

"  No,  only  a  cough." 

He  looked  at  her.  "  You've  got  thinner  'n 
when  I  was  here  last." 

"  It's  been  six  months."  Her  voice  sounded 
hollow.  There  was  a  drawn  look  about  her 
mouth. 

"  It  has  ?  So  long  ?  Why,  it  didn't  seem 
more'n  a  month." 

As  he  began  to  walk  more  slowly,  she  fell 
into  his  pace  unconsciously,  like  an  obedient 
dog. 

"  It  seems  like  six  years  to  me."  The  words 
ought  to  have  shaken  his  soul  —  there  was  such 
a  heartbreak  in  them. 

"  It  all  depends  on  the  way  you  spend  your 
time,  I  s'pose,"  he  said.  A  smile  came  upon  his 
mouth ;  his  eyes  smiled,  too  —  as  in  memory  of 
something  sweet. 

The  girl  saw.  Her  breath  came  with  a  sound 
that  was  almost  a  sob.  She  stopped  suddenly 
and  faced  him.  All  her  passion,  all  her  heart 
break,  all  her  despair  broke  loose  in  that  second 
120 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

and  shook  her  so  she  could  not  speak.  But  her 
eyes  spoke.  Presently  she  got  control,  too,  of 
her  voice  —  poor,  shaken  thing  that  it  was. 

"  Why  don't  yuh  speak  up  ?  "  she  said,  fiercely. 
"  Why  don't  yuh  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Why  don't  I  tell  yuh  what  ?  "  He  stared  at 
her  stupidly,  the  smile  slowly  leaving  his  face. 

"  That  yuh're  tired  o'  —  o'  bein'  engaged  to 
me."  The  words  must  have  hurt.  She  pressed 
both  hands  hard  upon  her  throat  and  coughed. 
"  Why  don't  yuh  tell  me  that  yuh  want  her  ?  " 

He  had  the  manhood  to  quail  —  and  to  insult 
her  by  no  lie. 

But  before  he  could  speak  her  passion  had 
burned  itself  out.  Her  face  worked  strongly 
and  tears  leaped  to  her  eyes,  stinging.  "  Oh, 
Doug,  Doug,"  she  said,  gently ;  "  I  w'u'dn't  of 
had  yuh  for  long,  anyhow.  Then  yuh  c'u'd  of 
had  her,  an'  I'd  of  been  happy  a  little  while 
first.  It  w'u'dn't  of  been  more 'n  a  year  —  an' 
she's  so  well  an'  pretty,  she  c'u'd  of  waited. 
But  it's  all  right.  Yuh  go  an'  have  her,  an' 
don't  worry  about  me.  I  guess  the  worst  part 
of  it's  over  now.  One  thing,  dyin'  won't  be 
ha'f  so  hard."  She  sank  down  upon  a  rock 
and  turned  her  face  down  the  arm  —  not  blue 
now,  but  dull  gray,  like  the  sky  from  which  all 
color  was  gone.  "Yuh  go  in  an'  tell  her.  I 
guess  I'll  stay  out  here  a  while." 

121 


THE    PITY    OF    IT 

He  stood  still. 

"  Your  —  that  is  —  your  ma  —  " 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said,  quickly.  A  quiver  went 
across  her  face.  "  I  forgot  her.  Oh,  poor 
ma !  "  She  arose  and  stood  irresolute.  Then 
she  said,  slowly  —  "I'll  go  in  with  yuh.  We 
won't  let  her  know  till  you  'n  Lily  Belle  are 
gone.  Then  I'll  tell  her  myself." 

"She  —  she  —  " 

"  It'll  be  all  right,"  she  assured  him,  patiently. 
"She  don't  cross  me  in  anything  —  since  I  got 
to  coughin'  so." 

He  turned  back,  then,  with  his  head  up  and 
a  glow  on  his  face  —  the  happiest  coward  that 
ever  breathed  God's  air.  She  went  swaying 
along  beside  him.  The  wind  tore  her  cape  from 
her  chest.  She  coughed  often.  Her  face  was 
as  bleak  as  the  sea ;  but  her  soul  shone  like  a 
steadfast  star  out  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 


122 


BELINDY'S   ONE  BEAU 


BELINDY'S   ONE    BEAU 

"My!  Don't  Mount  Baker  look  fine  this 
morning !  " 

Mrs.  Davenport  stood  by  the  kitchen  window. 
Her  left  arm  formed  a  perfect  V,  and  the  back 
of  her  hand  rested  upon  her  hip.  There  were 
callous  spots  in  the  palm  thus  turned  upward, 
and  the  fingers  were  crooked  and  stiffened  with 
hard  work.  In  her  hand  was  a  hot-cake  turner, 
which  shone  from  many  dexterous  slidings  be 
tween  browned  cakes  and  the  buttered  griddle. 

"We  didn't  see  no  such  mountains  as  that 
in  Kanzas,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  grim  satis 
faction. 

Belinda  was  washing  dishes  at  a  little  home 
made  table.  She  set  the  cup  she  was  washing 
back  into  the  dish-pan,  stripped  the  soap-suds 
from  her  reddened  arms  with  her  hands,  and 
went  to  the  window.  Foamy  flecks  of  suds 
dropped  down  her  blue  checked  apron,  and  a 
pleasant  vapor  arose  from  her  moist  hands  and 
arms. 

She  looked,  over  her  mother's  shoulder,  at  the 
noble  snow-dome,  swelling  out  of  the  fir-grown 
hills. 

125 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

"  How  pink  it  looks,"  she  said. 

"  Unh-hunh,"  said  the  older  woman,  breath 
ing  a  sigh  with  no  consciousness  of  the  vague 
longing  that  gave  it  birth. 

"  Kind  o'  purpte-pmk,"  said  Belinda  ;  "  like  " 
—  her  eyelids  fell  a  little  over  her  deep  eyes, 
giving  them  a  far-sighted  look  —  "  like  the  dust 
on  the  blue  grapes  in  California  when  the  sun 
shines  on  'em." 

Mrs.  Davenport  laughed.  It  was  a  laugh  as 
harsh  and  uncompromising  as  a  hard  life  had 
made  herself ;  but  it  held  a  touch  of  reluctant 
tenderness,  nevertheless. 

"  You  do  beat  all !  "  she  said,  turning  to  look 
at  the  girl  who  was  breathing  silently  between 
parted  lips.  "Where  on  earth  you  git  sech 
notions  from  I  don't  see !  Not  from  your  paw 
nor  me,  though,  I  can  tell  you  that  mighty 
quick.  People  that  was  bound  out  when  they 
was  childern  back  in  Pennsylvany  never  had 
much  time  to  think  how  dust  looked  on  purple 
grapes.  I  ust  to  git  up  at  three  o'clock  morn 
ings  an'  milk  twenty  cows  before  breakfast  — 
at  least" — she  corrected  —  "before  /got  any 
breakfast." 

Belinda  still  looked  at  the  mountain  with 
out  speaking.  She  had  heard  the  story  of  her 
mother's  hard  life  so  many  times  before. 

"Then  after  I  did  get  a  bite  o'  breakfast," 
126 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

pursued  Mrs.  Davenport,  in  a  reminiscent  and 
injured  tone,  "it  was  work  on  the  jump  in  the 
latching  till  noontime  ;  an'  after  dinner  I  had  to 
go  out  in  the  field  with  the  hands  an'  drop  pata- 
tas,  or  hoe  corn,  or  whatever  there  was  to  do. 
An*  after  supper"  —bitterly —  "twenty  cows  to 
milk  again  !  Some  of  'em  had  to  be  tied  up  to 
keep  from  kicking  the  pail  over  !  There  wa'n't 
much  dust  on  blue  grapes  in  them  days ! " 

The  girl  turned  silently  and  went  back  to  her 
dish-washing. 

"  Fer  gracious'  sake  !  "  exclaimed  her  mother, 
suddenly.  "If  here  don't  come  the  men-folks 
to  breakfast,  an'  it  not  ha'f,  ner  near  ha'f  ready ! 
Hurry  up  with  them  dishes,  an'  after  this  you 
see  that  you  get  all  washed  up  the  night  before. 
Thank  mercy,  they  have  to  wash  theirselves  at 
the  sink  !  That'll  give  us  five  minutes  longer. 
Why  —  there's  somebody  with  'em!  Whoever 
in  this  world  can  be  coming  at  this  hour  ?  Oh, 
I  see  now  —  it's  the  ingineer  got  back  at  last. 
My  !  what  a  big,  fine-looking  fellow  he  is." 

The  dishes  clattered  noisily  in  the  draining- 
pan.  One  fell. 

"  Look  out  what  you're  doing,  Belindy  !  You're 
so  careless.  Why,  somebody's  talking  about  you 
—  your  ear's  just  scarlet.  It's  your  left  ear, 
too  ;  they're  talking  bad  about  you." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  the  girl.  She  bent 
127 


BELINDY  S    ONE   BEAU 

her  head  a  little  lower.     Her  face  was  scarlet, 
too. 

The  men  came  up  the  three  steps  to  the  back 
porch.  Mr.  Davenport  commenced  pumping, 
from  force  of  habit.  The  pump  screaked  dis 
cordantly.  "  This  pump  needs  oilin',"  he  said, 
in  a  kind  of  mild  surprise. 

His  son  and  the  hired  man  looked  at  each 
other  and  smiled ;  they  had  heard  the  same 
remark  delivered  in  the  same  surprised  tone 
every  morning  of  the  past  six  months. 

"  Here,  Mr.  Sanderson,  you  wash  first,  an' 
then  you  can  go  in  an'  speak  to  the  women  folks." 
He  pushed  a  basin  of  swaying  water  to  the  far 
ther  end  of  the  sink ;  one  little  wave  swelled 
high  and  toppled  over  the  side.  "  You've  been 
gone  nigh  onto  a  month,  hain't  you  ?  " 

John  Sanderson  came  to  the  sink  with  the 
long,  firm  stride  of  the  men  who  precede  the  great 
transcontinental  railways  —  the  men  who  are 
accustomed  to  forcing  their  way  through  un 
broken  forests  and  clambering  along  fearful 
precipices.  He  was,  indeed,  fine-looking.  He 
rolled  back  the  collar  of  his  gray  flannel  shirt, 
showing  a  splendid  brown  throat  that  whitened 
clown  toward  the  shoulders  and  chest.  Then  he 
turned  up  his  sleeves  till  a  narrow  strip  of  white 
flesh  made  a  bracelet  between  the  flannel  and 
the  brown  of  his  wrist. 

128 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

"Almost  a  month,"  he  said,  heartily,  and 
plunged  into  the  basin  of  sparkling  water. 

"  Maw,"  called  Mr.  Davenport,  beginning 
again  on  the  raspy  pump,  "  can't  you  give  us  a 
clean  tow'l  ? " 

"  Oh,  yaas  —  in  a  minute." 

There  were  hurrying  steps  and  then  silence 
in  the  kitchen.  The  pleasant  smell  of  cakes 
browning  on  a  buttered  griddle  was  borne  out 
through  the  open  door. 

"  Here's  a  towel,  paw,"  said  Mrs.  Davenport, 
coming  out  suddenly.  She  walked  with  quick, 
short  steps. 

"  Why,  how  are  you,  Mr.  Sanderson  ?  Back 
at  last,  are  you  ?  You  stayed  so  long  we  was 
beginning  to  think  you'd  found  a  boarding-place 
more  to  your  likes." 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,  Mrs.  Davenport,"  replied 
Sanderson,  burying  his  wet  face  in  the  towel 
and  returning  a  compliment  for  her  good- 
natured  jest.  "  As  long  as  my  headquarters  are 
here  I  wouldn't  board  with  any  one  else  if  I  got 
my  board  for  nothing." 

"  Oh  — you  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Davenport, 
blushing  and  bridling  coquettishly.  "  Paw,  d*  you 
hear  that  ?  My  land !  That's  the  biggest  compli 
ment  I've  got  to  my  cooking  sence  I  was  first  mar 
ried  back  in  Kanzas.  I  notice  women  don't  get 
many  compliments  after  they've  been  married  —  " 
139 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

"Maw,"  called  Belinda,  from  within,  "your 
cakes  are  burning." 

"  Pfew  !  Mercy  !  I  should  say  so  !  "  Mrs. 
Davenport  hurried  in.  Sanderson  followed  her. 

He  went  through  the  low-raftered  kitchen, 
with  its  shining  pans  hanging  on  the  walls,  and 
into  the  small  dining-room,  where  a  pleasant 
jingle  of  forks  and  spoons  told  him  that  Belinda 
was  "  setting  "  the  table.  A  window  was  open 
to  the  morning  sun,  and  white  muslin  curtains 
were  pushing  in  and  out  with  a  soft,  swishing 
sound.  A  morning-glory  vine  swung  white  and 
purple  bells  in  the  light  breeze.  A  butterfly 
lay  on  the  window  ledge  with  slowly  throbbing 
wings.  There  was  a  delicious  breath  of  lilacs 
in  the  room,  too — but  sweeter  and  fairer  than 
all  of  these  sweet  and  fair  things  was  the  young 
girl  standing  by  the  table  in  a  pale  blue  cotton 
gown;  with  her  brown  curls  tied  back  with  a 
blue  ribbon ;  with  a  face  and  throat  like  a 
creamy  lily  that  has  been  touched  by  sunset ; 
with  lips  that  trembled  a  little,  and  the  very 
gladdest  eyes  that  ever  looked  out  of  a  maiden's 
soul. 

Sanderson  went  to  her,  smiling,  and  took  her 
hand.  There  was  a  spoon  in  it,  which  he 
quietly  removed  with  his  left  hand. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  she  did  not  speak,  "are 
you  glad  to  see  me?" 

130 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

"Of  course,"  said  the  girl,  very  low.  She 
drew  her  hand  from  his  clasp,  awkwardly  and 
with  a  deeper  color.  A  whiff  of  wind  pushed 
the  curtains  far  out  into  the  room,  and  shook  its 
freight  of  lilac  sweets  all  about  them. 

"  You'll  go  to  the  dance  with  me  to-night  ? " 
said  Sanderson,  lowering  his  voice.  "  I  hurried 
back  especially  for  that." 

Belinda  felt  her  lashes  sink  suddenly  to  her 
burning  cheek,  hiding  the  swift,  deep  joy  that 
flamed  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  taking  up  a  knife, 
and,  in  her  embarrassment,  dropping  it  on  the 
floor.  "  I'll  see  what  maw  says  to  it.  Where 
is  it  ?  " 

"  Down  in  Fairhaven  —  in  the  basement  of 
the  new  grocery  store.  We  would  have  to  go 
down  in  a  canoe  —  all  alone,  too,  I  guess. 
Would  you  be  afraid?" 

Would  she  be  afraid  ?  With  him  ?  Belinda 
almost  laughed.  But  she  answered  indifferently 
—  "I  guess  not.  I'll  see  what  maw  says.  Who's 
going  ? " 

"  Oh,  all  the  boys  of  my  party  and  a  lot  from 
Old  Whatcom  ;  I  don't  know  what  girls  they're 
going  to  take." 

"There  are  some  new  girls  just  come  to  Fair- 
haven,"  said  Belinda. 

"Breakfast's  all  ready!"  cried  Mrs.    Daven- 


BELINDY'S  ONE  BEAU 


port,  bouncing  in.  She  carried  a  large  platter 
of  fried  ham  and  eggs  carefully  freckled  on  both 
sides.  "  Set  right  down,  Mr.  Sanderson.  Be- 
lindy,  you  pour  out,  will  you,  while  I  get  the 
pancakes  ? " 

Belinda  took  the  chair  at  the  head  of  the 
table  and  commenced  putting  cream  and  sugar 
into  the  thick  cups. 

"What  —  on  —  earth,"  said  her  brother  Tom, 
who  sat  beside  her,  "  are  you  puttin'  sugar  into 
paw's  cup  fer  ?" 

"  Am  I  ? "  said  Belinda,  coloring  deeply,  un 
able  to  lift  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  you  are.  And  now  —  look  at  you  !  I'm 
blamed  if  you  ain't  puttin'  cream  into  mine. 
What's  the  matter  of  you  all  of  a  sudden  this 
mornin'  ? " 

"Talkin'  about  Fairhaven,"  said  Mr.  Daven 
port,  balancing  his  knife  with  precision  on  the 
edge  of  his  plate.  "They've  got  six  houses  put 
up  down  there,  an'  a  groc'ry  store,  an'  a  two- 
story  hotel  —  to  say  nothin'  of  famblies  that's 
livin'  in  shacks  an'  tents,  waitin'  for  houses.  I 
tell  you,  the  boom's  right  on  down  there.  Ben 
nett's  been  up  an'  had  a  town  meetin',  an'  he's 
goin'  right  ahead  with  the  railroad.  They're 
goin'  to  start  up  the  old  Eldredge  mill,  too, 
that's  been  layin'  idle  all  these  years.  Mr.  San 
derson,  have  a  hot  pancake." 

132 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

"  The  good  year  of  '89  will  bring  prosperity 
to  Bellingham  Bay,"  said  Sanderson,  signifi 
cantly.  "I  suppose  we  haven't  eight  hundred 
people  on  the  whole  Bay  to-day,  but  I'll  bet  my 
last  red  cent  that  in  less  than  two  years  we'll 
have  fifteen  thousand.  You  know  that  lot  on 
Holly  street,  opposite  Quackenbush's  —  right 
in  the  stumps  and  fir  trees  ?  Well,  I  could  have 
bought  that  two  months  ago  for  seven  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars,  and  to-day  it  went  to  a  Mon 
tana  man  for  thirty-five  hundred.  How's  that 
for  a  jump  in  two  months  ? " 

"  You  don't  say !  "  Mr.  Davenport  looked  ex 
cited  and  began  to  eat  very  fast.  "  Well,  maw, 
all  I've  got  to  say  is  we've  just  everlastingly 
struck  it  at  last.  We  come  here  in  '62,  an'  we've 
had  a  hand-to-mouth  time  of  it  ever  sence,  but  it 
kind  o'  looks  now  as  if  we're  right  in  it." 

"You  don't  ketch  me  objectin',"  said  Mrs. 
Davenport,  facetiously.  "  I'm  tired  enough  of 
log  cabins  an'  rag  carpets.  I'm  tired  of  work 
ing,  too.  Milking  twenty  cows  before  break 
fast  when  you're  a  child,  an'  pitching  hay  in  the 
harves'  fields  wa'n't  meant  for  women's  work, 
an'  it  stiffens  up  their  joints  most  offul.  It's  a 
shame  an'  a  disgrace  to  them  I  lived  with  the 
way  I  had  to  work  —  " 

"  Oh,  cheese  the  racket,"  mumbled  Tom,  dis 
respectfully,  under  his  breath. 

'33 


BELINDY  S    ONE   BEAU 

"  Where's  the  apple-sass,  maw  ? "  said  Mr. 
Davenport.  "  I  want  some  to  top  off  on." 

"  Well,  paw !  can't  you  get  along  one  meal 
without  apple-sass?"  She  laughed  in  a  supe 
rior  way.  "  Belindy,  see  if  there's  a  little  cold 
left,  will  you  ?  I  know  there  ain't  enough  for 
a  whole  mess,  but  mebbe  there's  a  plenty  for 
your  paw.  I  never !  The  idee  of  cold  apple- 
sass  on  hot  pancakes ! " 

"  Maw,"  said  Belinda,  some  time  after  break 
fast,  as  she  stood  at  the  little  kitchen  table 
again  washing  dishes,  "  Mr.  Sanderson  wants 
me  to  go  to  the  dance  with  him  to-night." 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Daven 
port.  She  stopped  on  her  way  to  the  porch 
and  stood  looking  at  her  daughter's  back.  In 
her  hands  was  a  large  plate  containing  four 
prints  of  fresh  butter,  each  swelled  out  on  top 
in  the  disagreeably  suggestive  image  of  a  cow. 

"It's  down  in  Fairhaven,"  added  Belinda, 
hastily. 

"Hunh!" 

"It's  in  the  basement  of  the  new  grocery 
store." 

"Hunh!" 

"And  we'd  have  to  go  down  in  a  canoe,  I 
guess." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Davenport,  at  last,  with 
a  long  breath,  "that  beats  me!" 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

She  went  out  on  the  porch  and  crossed  the 
yard  to  the  spring-house.  She  put  the  butter 
carefully  in  a  cool  corner,  skimmed  the  even 
ing's  milk  and  set  the  cream  away  to  sour,  and 
then  gathered  together  the  empty  milk-pans 
and  plunged  them  into  the  spring  to  cool. 

"That  beats  me,"  she  said,  with  a  look  of 
grim  pleasure.  "  I  wonder  what  Mis'  Randall'll 
say  to  that  ?  Always  a-talking  about  Elviry's 
beaux,  an*  where-all  they  take  her  to ;  an'  then 
always  a-winding  up  with  —  '  Well,  how's  Be- 
lindy  getting  along  ?  Got  any  beau  yet  ? '  I 
said  to  her  last  time  —  sassy  enough,  too, — 
'  No,  she  ain't  got  any  beau  yet.  She  ain't  the 
kind  that  picks  up  with  everybody,  trash  an' 
all.  She's  the  kind  that  only  has  one  beau, 
an'  him  the  right  kind  of  a  one.'  I'm  glad 
now  I  said  it,  even  if  it  did  give  her  a  chance 
to  say  back,  a-laffing  —  'Well,  she's  a  right  long 
time  a-gettin'  him,  ain't  she?'  I  guess  she'll 
remember  what  I  said  now.  If  Mr.  Sanderson 
ain't  the  right  kind,  I'd  like  to  know  where  they 
pick  the  right  kind  up  at !  A  civil  ingineer 
an'  a  college  grad'yate,  an'  the  perfect  picter  of 
health  —  sech  shoulders  an'  chest,  an'  sech 
legs  as  he's  got !  An'  he  gets  a  hunderd  an' 
fifty  dollars  a  month  an'  his  board.  They 
say  his  folks  is  reel  tyees  back  in  the  East, 
too." 

135 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

She  returned  to  the  house,  walking  fast  and 
holding  her  head  high. 

"Can  I  go,  maw?"  asked  Belinda,  with  a 
little  wistful  break  in  her  voice.  "  Elviry  Ran 
dall's  going,  an'  all  the  girls,  I  guess." 

"  Why,  of  course  you  can  go  —  with  a  gentle 
man  like  Mr.  Sanderson.  I  wonder  what  Mis' 
Randall'll  have  to  say  to  that !  Her  Elviry's 
never  had  a  beau  yet  that  was  anybody  bet 
ter  'n  a  hired  man,  or  a  rancher  with  his  pun'- 
kin  patch  mortgaged  up  to  its  eyebrows ;  an' 
she  did  have  one  that  was  a  bar-keeper." 

"  Oh,  maw,"  said  the  girl,  blushing  painfully  ; 
"  don't  talk  that  way.  Mr.  Sanderson  don't 
mean  anything  like  —  like  —  that." 

"Oh,  he  don't,  don't  he?  Well,  what  does 
he  mean,  then  ?  What  does  he  want  to  go  tak 
ing  you  to  dances  for,  I'd  like  to  know,  if  he 
don't  want  to  be  your  beau  ?  Just  tell  me  that, 
will  you,  Missy." 

"He  don't  mean  that,"  repeated  the  girl  very 
earnestly,  as  if  trying  to  convince  herself.  She 
found  it  difficult  to  speak  calmly.  There  was  a 
pulse  beating  away  in  her  throat,  and  she  felt  as 
if  she  must  put  up  her  hand  to  stop  it.  "  He  just 
wants  to  be  friendly  —  that's  all." 

"  He  always  was  friendly,"  replied  her  mother, 
stubbornly.  She  crushed  a  newspaper  and  began 
rubbing  vigorously  at  the  tiny,  brown  blisters  the 

136 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

frying  ham  had  sputtered  upon  the  stove.  "He 
didn't  have  to  ask  you  to  go  to  a  dance  just  to  be 
friendly,  did  he  ?  Asking  a  girl  to  go  to  a  dance 
meant  something  when  I  was  a  girl  back  in  Penn- 
sylvany." 

"It  don't  mean  anything  now,  maw,"  said 
Belinda,  very  low,  but  with  pulses  seeming  to 
beat  all  through  her  body  —  feeling  her  very 
fingers  grow  larger  with  the  pulses  beating  in 
them. 

"Well,  we'll  see." 

Mrs.  Davenport  took  one  lid  off  the  top  of  the 
stove  and,  after  flourishing  the  blackened  news 
paper  over  the  hearth  once  more,  tossed  it  into 
the  coals  and  replaced  the  lid.  She  went  out  to 
the  sink,  dipped  some  water  out  of  the  rain-bar 
rel  and  carefully  cleansed  her  hands ;  she  used 
mottled  Castile  soap  and  a  long,  coarse  towel 
with  blue  stripes  at  the  edges  ;  then  she  took  off 
her  big  apron  and  pinned  her  dress  at  the  throat. 
She  went  across  the  yard,  stooped  through  an 
opening  in  the  fence,  and  was  in  her  neighbor's 
back  yard. 

Mrs.  Randall  was  "  shelling  "  peas.  Her  kitchen 
door  was  open.  She  looked  up  when  Mrs.  Daven 
port  reached  the  porch. 

"  I  expected  that  was  you,"  she  said,  putting 
on  a  pleased  look.  "  You'll  excuse  my  not  gettin' 
up,  I  know,  with  all  these  peas  in  my  lap.  Set 

137 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

right  down.  I'm  awful  glad  you  run  over.  Any 
noos  ? " 

"  There  ain't  none  that  I  know  of.  My !  Ain't 
ev'rything  booming,  though  ?  I  guess  we're  going 
to  have  good  times  this  year." 

"  Yes,  an'  just  look  at  that  Fairhaven  —  the 
way  it's  a-shootin'  up  !  Several  noo  buildings ; 
an'  lots  of  fine  people  a-comin'  in  there." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  " 

"Why,  yes.  Ain't  you  heard?  They're  a-havin' 
high  times  down  there  — dances  an'  all  sorts  of  — 
society." 

"  I  heard  a  little,"  admitted  Mrs.  Davenport, 
with  a  fine  indifference. 

Mrs.  Randall  split  a  pale  green  pod  with  her 
broad  thumb  and  sent  the  peas  rattling  down 
into  the  pan.  "  You  have  to  look  peart  to  keep 
up  with  these  times,"  she  said,  with  some  con 
descension. 

"Yes,"  said  her  visitor,  meekly. 

"I  suppose  you  ain't  even  heard  about  the 
dance  down  in  the  basement  o'  the  noo  grocery 
store." 

"Well,  I  did  hear  something  about  that,"  ad 
mitted  Mrs.  Davenport,  with  caution. 

"Elviry's  goin'.  It's  goin'  to  be  some  pun'- 
kins,  I  guess,  from  all  I  hear.  Waxed  floor 
an'  two  fiddles  an'  a  caller  off.  Elviry's  goin' ; 
there's  b'en  two  or  three  after  her."  The  peas 

138 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

dropped  with  a  softened  sound  now  into  the 
pan. 

Mrs.  Davenport  put  one  knee  over  the  other, 
crossed  her  wrists,  and  looked  at  her  neighbor, 
smiling  kindly.  "  Is  she  going  with  the  bar 
keeper  ? "  she  said,  pleasantly.  "  Or  the  barber, 
or  the  hired  man  ?  Really,  you  must  excuse  the 
question — Elviry  has  so  many  beaux!  I  guess 
the  girls  all  feel  jealous  of  her." 

"  Do  they  ? "  Mrs.  Randall  studied  her  guest 
suspiciously.  She  did  not  like  her  tone,  although 
the  words  seemed  so  unenvious.  "  Well,  Elviry 
always  did  seem  to  take  with  the  young  men. 
She 's  had  more  'n  her  share  o'  chances,  if  I  do 
say  it  myself." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Davenport,  smiling. 
She  picked  up  a  pod  that  had  fallen  on  the  floor 
and  polished  it  with  her  rough  thumb.  "  There 
was  "  —  slowly  —  "  the  barber,  an'  two  hired 
men,  an'  the  butcher  —  the  one  that  'tended  to 
his  own  slaughtering,  wa'n't  it,  Mis'  Randall  ? 
—  an'  the  bar-keeper  —  what  a  pity  it  was  he 
got  drunk  so  often  an'  was  so  no  account !  Yes, 
Elviry's  had  more  chances  'n  most  girls." 

"There  was  more  than  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Randall,  huffily.  "There  was  the  preacher, 
Mis'  Davenport ;  an'  there  was  Mr.  Nelson,  an' 
there  was  Mr.  Fielding  that  owns  the  best  ranch 
on  Lake  Whatcom,  an'  just  a-dyin'  for  Elviry." 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

Mrs.  Davenport  laughed  now  without  effort. 
"  How  you  do  joke,  Mis'  Randall,"  she  said. 
"  That  poor  preacher  !  I  have  to  laff  every  time 
I  think  of  him.  He  wa'n't  worth  his  salt.  He 
didn't  get  three  hunderd  dollars  a  year,  an'  his 
congre'ation  went  to  sleep  right  in  the  middle  of 
his  sermons.  An'  Mr.  Fielding  —  I  guess  you'd 
have  to  pay  his  mortgage  off  for  him  if  Elviry 
took  a  notion  to  him.  His  ranch  is  mortgaged 
for  more  'n  it's  worth ;  we've  got  first  mortgage 
on  it  ourselves.  You  didn't  know  it  ?  Well,  you 
have  to  look  peart  to  keep  up  with  these  times. 
An'  as  for  Mr.  Nelson  —  I  always  felt  sorry  for 
the  way  he  treated  Elviry.  Never  looked  at  her 
after  that  widow  come  here  an'  just  up  an'  mar 
ried  her  off-hand." 

"  Elviry  wouldn't  have  him  !  "  Mrs.  Randall 
flung  the  words  out  between  her  teeth.  Her 
face  was  crimson.  The  peas  were  spurting  in 
all  directions  now.  "  He  ast  her  over  an'  over. 
You  needn't  to  waste  your  sympathy  on  my 
girl,  Mis'  Davenport.  You  keep  it  for  your 
Belindy  !  Belindy!" — she  laughed  shrilly  — 
"  Who  ever  offered  hisself  to  your  Belindy  ? 
Who  ever  wanted  to  take  her  anywheres  ? 
Who,  for  instance,  as  you  ast  me  about  El 
viry,  is  a-goin'  to  take  her  to  the  dance  to 
night?" 

Mrs.  Davenport  picked  up  another  pod  and 
140 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

began  polishing  it  leisurely.  "  Mr.  Sanderson 
is,"  she  said. 

The  downdrop  of  peas  was  interrupted.  Mrs. 
Randall's  thumb  paused  in  the  very  act  of  split 
ting  a  stubborn  pod.  She  lifted  two  startled 
eyes  to  her  neighbor's  complacent  face.  Mrs. 
Davenport's  bomb  had  done  its  deadly  work,  as 
the  newspapers  say. 

"Mr.  Sanderson!"  faltered  Mrs.  Randall. 
"  Not  the  civil  ingineer  ?  " 

"Yes."  Mrs.  Davenport  nodded  cheerfully. 
"  The  civil  ingineer.  He's  been  boarding  at  our 
house  nigh  onto  six  months,  an'  I  can  see  now 
that  he's  been  paying  attention  to  Belindy  in  a 
quiet  way  all  the  time ;  but  my !  she's  so  per- 
ticular  that  it  never  come  into  my  head,  nor 
into  paw's  head,  either,  that  they  was  a-setting 
their  caps  at  each  other.  But  it  all  come  out 
plain  enough  this  morning." 

The  peas  commenced  their  music  in  the  pan 
again,  but  with  less  spirit. 

"Of  course,"  continued  Mrs.  Davenport,  still 
with  that  aggravating  cheerfulness,  "we  wouldn't 
'a'  let  her  go  with  every  one.  Not  that  there 
was  any  danger  of  her  wanting  to  —  she  held 
her  head  so  high !  But  we  couldn't  object  to 
Mr.  Sanderson." 

There  was  a  silence.  Two  or  three  peas 
rattled  over  the  floor. 

141 


BELINDY'S  ONE  BEAU 


"  There  ain't  no  such  match  as  him  ever  been 
on  the  Bay.  Belindy's  been  a-waiting  for  the 
best.  Nothing  else  'u'd  do  her.  He's  a  college 
grad'yate,  an'  he's  of  a  toney  fambly.  He's 
Bennett's  right-hand  man  on  the  railroad ;  an' 
he  gits  a  hunderd  an'  fifty  dollars  a  month  an 
his  board" 

Mrs.  Randall  looked  at  her  visitor  feebly. 

"  Well,  I  must  run  back.  Belindy  won't  know 
where  I'm  at.  I  just  come  over  to  talk  about 
how  things  is  a-booming  on  the  Bay.  Mercy 
me !  I  wonder  what  they'd  say  back  in  Kanzas 
if  they  could  see  towns  a-growing  from  a  hun 
derd  to  a  thousand  people  a  week !  An'  that's 
what  Whatcom's  doing.  Good-day,  Mis'  Ran 
dall  ;  I  hope  Elviry'll  have  a  good  time  to 
night." 

Mrs.  Randall  stood  up  gingerly  and  set  the 
peas  on  the  table.  There  was  a  flush  on  her 
thin  face,  and  a  bewildered  look  in  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  good-day,"  she  said,  weakly.  She  was 
completely  out  of  countenance  and,  probably 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  nervous.  She 
pulled  down  first  one  sleeve  and  then  the  other, 
with  an  awkward  pretence  of  indifference;  and 
kept  pulling  at  them  after  they  had  given  warn 
ings  that  they  could  come  no  further.  "Run 
in  ag'in,  Mis'  Davenport." 

"  Yes,  I  will.  You  come  over  whenever  you 
142 


BELINDY'S  ONE  BEAU 


can,  Mis'  Randall.  Don't  stop  to  dress  your 
self  up,  but  just  run  in  the  back  way  an'  be 
neighborly." 

"Well,  I  will." 

Mrs.  Davenport  smiled  as  she  stooped  through 
the  opening  in  the  fence.  "  Every  dawg  has  his 
day,"  she  said,  with  satisfaction,  "an'  I  guess 
this  is  mine." 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock  that  evening  John 
Sanderson,  with  one  magnificent,  deep-chested 
sweep  of  his  powerful  arms,  sent  his  oars 
ploughing  through  the  water  and  drove  his 
boat  high  on  the  Fairhaven  beach.  Belinda 
was  sitting  in  the  stern  of  the  skiff.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  pink  sateen,  made  with  many  plaited 
ruffles.  It  fitted  badly,  but  it  could  not  conceal 
the  lovely  lines  of  her  figure.  She  had  gathered 
it  up  about  her  with  a  somewhat  conscious  co- 
quettishness,  disclosing  a  white  muslin  petticoat 
adorned  with  several  wide,  crocheted  ruffles.  It 
was  starched  so  stiffly  that  it  rustled  when  she 
moved.  There  was  a  little  water  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat,  and  one  fold  of  the  white  skirt 
had  found  it  and  nestled  into  it.  But  Belinda 
was  not  to  be  annoyed  by  small  things  like 
that. 

She  wore  a  pink  velvet  bow  in  her  soft,  brown 
curls,  and  a  strip  of  pink  velvet  around  her  deli 
cate,  beating  throat,  —  beating  with  a  strange, 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

sweet  fright  that  kept  her  pulses  startled  and 
her  lips  dumb.  She  wore  much  cheap  jewelry 
and  many  bangles. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  her  deep  eyes  were 
turned  toward  the  West  in  still  ecstasy.  The 
bay  was  like  a  great  Safrano  rose,  each  wave  an 
upcurling,  hollowed  petal,  paling  from  its  edge's 
rich  copper-pink  to  a  delicate  green  at  the  centre. 
The  sky  flaring  above  was  of  a  warm  salmon 
color.  Low  in  the  west  clouds  were  piled 
loosely,  each  on  each,  making  tall  columns  of 
pearl,  edged  with  fire ;  and  through  these  the 
sun  sank,  vibrating  and  luminous,  to  the  sea. 

Sanderson  sat  with  the  oars  in  his  hands. 
The  boat  was  half  in  the  water  and  half  on  the 
beach.  The  flowing  tide  lifted  it  a  little  higher 
with  each  swell.  The  light  waves  spoke  and 
kissed  around  its  sides.  He  held  the  oars  slant 
ing  to  the  water;  the  drops,  running  in  linked 
chains  along  their  edges,  turned  to  fire-opals 
when  the  sun  touched  them. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  said  Sanderson,  smiling  at 
her.  She  gave  him  a  brief,  sweet  glance  and 
looked  away  again. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  drawing  a  deep  breath  through 
his  splendid  lungs,  "  I  have  seen  sunsets  in  the 
Selkirks,  the  Cascades,  the  Rockies,  and  on  the 
Hudson,  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  the  Mediter 
ranean  —  yes,  and  on  the  awful  plains ;  but  I 
144 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

have  never  seen  anything  to  equal  a  night  like 
this  on  Puget  Sound." 

''Oh,  I  am  glad,"  said  the  girl.  Her  chin 
sunk  into  the  palm  of  her  hand.  Her  lips  were 
warm  and  moist,  and  curled  apart  like  the  lips 
of  a  sea-shell.  There  was  a  delicious  pushing 
movement  to  the  boat  —  dreamy  and  rhythmic. 

"I  guess  we'll  have  to  go,  though,"  said  San 
derson,  drawing  in  the  oars.  The  boat  rocked 
as  he  stepped  out  of  it.  He  pulled  it  further  up 
the  beach.  It  grated  raspingly  upon  the  gravel. 
Belinda  arose  reluctantly,  and  shook  her  pretty 
pink  ruffles  over  the  white  petticoat. 

"  I  hate  to  go  in,"  she  said.  There  was  a 
wistfulness  in  her  eyes. 

"  Let  me  lift  you  out,"  said  Sanderson,  putting 
his  arm  around  her  ;  "  so  your  dress  will  not  be 
draggled." 

He  lifted  her  with  quite  a  business-like  air,  as 
if  it  were  really  the  only  sensible  way  of  getting 
her  out ;  but  she  trembled  suddenly  with  deliri 
ous  sweetness. 

The  ball-room  was  long  and  narrow,  unceiled 
and  low-raftered.  It  was  dimly  lighted  by  lamps 
and  lanterns  hung  unevenly  upon  the  walls.  On 
a  small  platform  three  feet  above  the  floor  two 
"  fiddlers "  were  grinding  out  a  waltz.  One 
played  with  his  eyes  closed;  both  kept  time 
with  their  feet. 


BELINDY'S  ONE  BEAU 

Ten  couples  were  waltzing.  Gliding  in  and 
out  among  them  was  a  youth  in  a  pepper-and- 
salt  suit  and  a  pink  tie,  scattering  shavings  from 
a  wax  candle.  Ranged  around  the  sides  of  the 
room  on  benches  those  who  had  come  only  as 
"  spectators  "  sat  with  stiff,  straight  backs ;  the 
walls  behind  them  were  of  unplaned  boards  which 
threatened  disaster  to  all  best  dresses  coming  in 
contact  with  them. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Sanderson,  with  an  amused 
laugh  ;  "we  can't  miss  this  waltz." 

Belinda  glided  into  the  circle  of  his  arm  and 
their  warm  palms  melted  together.  Happiness 
sat  so  sweetly  heavy  upon  her  eyes  that  their 
gentle  lids  were  weighed  over  them,  hiding 
their  tenderness. 


Where  now  are  the  twin  cities  of  Whatcom 
and  Fairhaven  had  been  but  a  handful  of 
"  shacks  "  on  one  side,  and  the  noble  sweep  of 
blue  sea  on  the  other,  when  Belinda's  parents 
toiled  across  the  plains  in  ox-wagons  from  Kan 
sas,  and  built  a  log  cabin  in  the  fir  woods.  Here, 
a  few  years  later,  Belinda  was  born,  and  here  she 
had  always  lived.  She  had  attended  the  dis 
trict  school  in  winter  ;  and  it  was  her  father's 
146 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

boast  that  he  had  "  give  Belindy  an  edicatjon  as 
good  as  the  best  of  'em." 

The  girl  had  loved  Sanderson  almost  from  the 
first  moment  of  her  acquaintance  with  him  ;  but 
she  had  not  suspected  it  herself  until  he  went 
away.  He  had  paid  her  no  attention,  to  be  sure, 
but  then  he  was  not  like  other  men  —  and  at 
least  he  paid  no  attention  to  other  girls.  He 
spent  all  his  spare  time  with  the  family,  usually 
playing  cards  with  Belinda  in  a  quiet  corner ; 
and  he  always  spoke  gently  to  her  and  was  so 
thoughtful  of  her  comfort.  She  was  sure  that 
he  lowered  his  voice  when  he  spoke  to  her  some 
times  ;  and  that  once  his  hand  shook  when  it 
accidentally  touched  hers.  Several  times  he 
had  brought  her  rare  wild  flowers  from  the  depths 
of  the  forest ;  they  were  pressed  in  a  copy  of 
Longfellow  that  she  kept  in  her  tiny  room  up  in 
the  "loft." 

She  thought  and  dreamed  of  all  these  things 
while  he  was  away,  but  not  until  to-day  had  she 
allowed  herself  to  believe  fully  in  his  love  for 
her.  Not  until  to-day  had  she  given  herself  to 
the  full  ecstasy  of  her  love  for  him. 

In  spite  of  her  soft  contradiction  of  her  mother's 
assertion  that  "asking  a  girl  to  go  to  a  dance 
meant  something,"  in  her  heart  she  believed  that 
it  did.  In  her  small  world  a  young  man  never 
thought  of  proffering  the  slightest  attention 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

to  a  young  woman  unless  he  did  "mean  some 
thing."  ...     So  to-night  she  was  happy. 

Perhaps  some  of  the  innocent  fire  throbbing 
in  the  girl's  veins  warmed  Sanderson's  pulses ; 
for  presently  he  bent  his  head  till  she  felt  his 
breath  on  her  temples  and  said  —  "Why,  this  is 
the  jolliest  waltz  I  ever  had/* 

"  Is  it  ?  "  trembled  Belinda. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  he  answered,  honestly. 

Then  the  music  stopped  and  with  it  the  sliding 
of  feet.  With  flushed  faces,  much  laughter  and 
noisy  bantering  the  dancers  found  seats.  Sander 
son  seated  Belinda,  and  joined  a  group  of  young 
men  who  stood  awkwardly,  pulling  their  mus 
taches  and  casting  surreptitious  glances  around 
the  room  in  search  of  partners. 

"Take  yer  pardners  fer  a  plain  querdrille ! " 
yelled  the  caller,  and  instantly  there  was  a  rush 
and  a  scramble.  One  or  two  young  men  secured 
desirable  places  on  the  floor  at  one  leap  and  then 
signalled  to  the  young  women  they  had  already 
engaged  to  join  them. 

There  was  a  delay  and  a  murmur  of  complaint. 
One  young  fellow  climbed  on  a  bench. 

"You'll  have  to  come  up  an'  buy  yer  num 
bers,"  he  shouted,  "before  you  dance  this  set. 
Leave  yer  girls  on  the  floor  an'  walk  right  up. 
Only  a  dollar  an'  a  half  a  number,  supper  an' 
all." 

148 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

Belinda  had  gone  out  to  dance  with  some  one, 
and  now  looked  around  timidly  for  Sanderson. 
He  was  in  the  next  set,  dancing  with  a  girl  she 
had  never  seen  before.  And  what  a  beautiful 
girl !  She  was  looking  up  into  his  face  with  the 
most  coquettish  eyes  poor  Belinda  could  imagine. 
She  was  an  olive-complexioned  brunette.  She 
had  a  fine  figure.  Her  dress  was  of  creamy  nun's- 
veiling  that  clung  stylishly  to  her  limbs  and  fitted 
exquisitely. 

The  feeling  of  exalted  passion  in  Belinda's 
heart  melted  in  sharp  and  bitter  pain.  She 
looked  down  at  her  pink,  ruffled  dress,  and  hated 
it ;  at  her  cheap,  bangled  bracelets,  and  hated 
them.  She  could  have  torn  them  off  and  stamped 
on  them.  This  girl  he  was  dancing  with — she 
wore  no  cheap  jewelry.  There  was  a  string  of 
pearls  around  her  slender  throat,  and  that  was 
all.  No  ruffles  on  her  dress  and  not  over-much 
material  in  it ;  and  yet  how  stylish  and  distin 
guished  she  looked !  As  much  out  of  place  at 
that  country  dance  as  —  as  Sanderson  himself, 
the  girl  thought  with  a  sudden,  torturing  bitter 
ness.  She  stood,  crimson  and  miserable,  realiz 
ing  for  the  first  time  how  ill-dressed  she  was,  how 
country-bred,  how  unlike  this  other  girl. 

"  Honors  to  yer  pardners  !  "  shouted  the  clarion 
voice  of  the  caller.  "  Alley-mande-left !  " 

As  she  clasped  hands  with  the  young  man  on 
149 


BELINDY  S    ONE   BEAU 

her  right,  Sanderson,  "  alley-mande-lefting "  in 
the  adjoining  set,  passed  close  to  her. 

"The  next  waltz,"  he  whispered,  bending  his 
head.  "Don't  forget ;  I  must  have  it." 

His  face  was  radiant.  Hope  sprung  up  in  her 
heart  again.  She  had  just  time  to  nod,  with  a 
smile  that  was  almost  pathetic  in  its  sudden  joy, 
before  he  disappeared  among  the  dancers. 

She  thought  —  "  How  foolish  of  me  "  -—  "  First 
four  right  an'  left !  "  —  "  to  be  ready  to  give  up 
because  he  danced  with  another  girl !  It's  only  " 
—  " Sass-shay  ! "  yelled  the  caller  —  "a  quadrille, 
anyhow,  an'  he's  asked  me" — "Right  hand  to 
pardner,  gran'  right  an'  left!"  —  "for  another 
waltz."  "  Balance  to  yer  pardner  !"  —  "I  wonder 
if  she  puts  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  when  she 
swings  "  —  "  Swing  on  the  corner !  "  —  "  She 
didn't  get  to  swing  with  him  that  time!"  — 
"  Promenade  all !  " 

So  the  dancing  and  Belinda's  thoughts  went 
rushing  on  to  the  music  of  the  violins  and  the 
rhythm  of  tireless  feet.  When  it  was  over  San 
derson  brought  his  partner  and  seated  her  beside 
Belinda. 

"  Don't  forget  my  waltz,  Belinda,"  he  said.  "  It 
will  be  only  the  second.  We  must  have  more 
than  that  —  waltzes,  I  mean  ;  I  don't  care  for 
other  dances." 

He  went  away  then.     The  young  men  had 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

gathered  around  the  door  again,  mopping  their 
faces  with  colored  silk  handkerchiefs  and  breath 
ing  heavily. 

Most  of  the  girls  sat  giggling  and  fanning  them 
selves  furiously.  From  time  to  time  they  sent 
inviting  glances  to  the  group  at  the  door.  The 
fiddlers  were  "tuning  up."  Somebody  opened  a 
window  and  the  soft  sea-wind  came  in. 

"  Oh,  how  delightful,"  said  a  sweet  voice  at 
Belinda's  side.  "The  breeze  is  straight  from 
the  ocean." 

"Yes,"  blushed  Belinda.  She  trembled  with 
embarrassment. 

"  All  take  pardners  fer  a  waltz ! " 

"  Belinda,"  said  Sanderson,  resting  his  strong 
arm  around  her  waist  and  speaking  low,  "you 
are  the  dearest  little  girl  in  the  world,  and  I 
believe  you  like  me ;  don't  you  ? " 

"A  little,"  said  the  girl,  with  unconscious 
coquetry.  Her  heart  struggled  against  his  arm. 

"  Enough  to  do  something  to  make  me  happy 
forever  ? " 

"I  don't  know  —  maybe."  The  pulse  was 
beating  awfully  now  in  her  throat. 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  ask  something  of  you 
when  we  go  home  to-night,  and  you  must  make 
up  your  mind  that  you  will  not  disappoint  me. 
And  I  want  every  waltz  to-night,  Belinda.  I'll 
tell  you  why  when  we  go  home." 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 


"And  I  was  jealous  of  her"  thought  Belinda, 
and  her  heart  swelled  with  a  great  tenderness. 


It  was  two  o'clock  when  Sanderson  pushed  the 
boat  down  into  the  water  and  sprang  to  the  oars. 
It  was  a  soft,  still  night.  There  was  no  moon, 
but  the  stars  shone  like  silver  lamps  in  the  blue 
distances  above. 

For  a  long  time  neither  spoke.  The  oars  cut, 
hissing,  through  the  water,  and  the  waves  rippled 
around  the  prow. 

Belinda  sat  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  waiting, 
in  a  happiness  too  deep  for  speech. 

At  last  Sanderson  spoke. 

"Belinda,"  he  said,  "you  saw  the  girl  I  danced 
the  first  quadrille  with  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Belinda.  She  pressed  her  palms 
together  in  her  lap  and  sat  motionless. 

"  I  knew  her  in  the  East.  I  was  engaged  to 
her.  But  we  had  a  misunderstanding.  I  was 
at  fault,  and  she  never  forgave  me.  She  laughs 
at  me  when  I  entreat  her  to  forgive  me,  and  pre 
tends  to  be  indifferent  and  coquettish.  But  she 
loves  me  as  deeply  as  I  love  her,  Belinda,  and 
we  are  both  breaking  our  hearts,  apart." 

He  paused,  but  Belinda  did  not  speak. 

"  I  knew  her  father  was  coming  to  Fairhaven 

152 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

—  he  had  some  inside  information  from  the 
railroad  people.  That  was  why  I  came  here, 
Belinda  —  and  waited." 

"  Yes,"  said  Belinda. 

"That  was  why  I  never  noticed  other  girls, 
Belinda — why  I  stayed  at  home  evenings,  and 
never  went  out  like  other  fellows.  I  was  true 
to  my  sweetheart ;  you  know  that,  Belinda." 

"Yes,"  said  Belinda;  "I  know." 

"  Belinda,"  said  Sanderson,  earnestly,  "I  want 
you  to  help  me  make  her  jealous.  I  believe 
that  is  the  only  thing  that  will  break  her  pride. 
That's  why  I  asked  you  to  go  to  the  dance  with 
me,  Belinda,  and  why  I  danced  every  waltz  with 
you,  when  I  was  wild  to  dance  them  with  her  — 
just  to  have  my  arm  around  her  once  more  and 
feel  her  soft  breath.  Belinda,  don't  refuse 
me." 

He  had  stopped  rowing.  They  were  nearing 
the  wharf.  Belinda  heard  the  water  pushing 
around  the  barnacled  piles. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  the  girl.  "  What 
is  it  you  are  asking  of  me  ?  I  can't  understand. 
Everything  seems  —  " 

"  To  make  her  jealous,  Belinda.  To  go  every 
where  with  me,  and  dance  with  me,  and  —  oh, 
make  her  think  that  you  like  me  and  that  I  like 
you." 

He  steered  the  boat  between  the  piles  that 


BELINDY  S    ONE   BEAU 

some  tide-land  jumper  had  driven.  Belinda  saw 
how  black  the  water  was  where  the  shadows 
were  deepest,  and  shivered  unconsciously. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  could  do  that,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  Belinda!"  Sanderson  got  down  on  his 
knees  in  the  boat  and  took  both  her  hands,  — 
they  were  cold  but  not  trembling.  "  Don't  re 
fuse  me.  I  have  set  my  heart  on  this  as  my 
last  hope.  If  you  only  knew  her,  Belinda ! 
How  good  and  gentle  she  is  !  She  has  a  little 
blind  brother,  and  she  is  a  very  angel  to  him. 
And  she  is  so  kind  to  her  parents — and  to 
poor  people  —  to  every  one  but  me  !  She  was 
not  true  to  herself  to-night ;  she  was  pretending 
to  be  light  and  indifferent.  But  she  was  pale, 
Belinda." 

"  Was  she  ? "  said  poor  Belinda.  "  She  spoke 
to  me  once  ;  her  voice  was  sweet." 

"  Aye,"  said  Sanderson,  "  it  is  sweet.  Belinda, 
Belinda  —  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  to-morrow,"  said  the  girl,  shiv 
ering.  "Let's  go  home  —  I'm  awful  cold." 

The  cocks  crew  as  they  entered  the  yard. 
Half-way  up  the  rhododendron  path,  Belinda 
turned  to  Sanderson. 

"What  is  her  name?"  she  asked,  and  she 
shivered  again. 

"June,"  said  Sanderson,  softly ;  "June  Char- 
man." 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 


"  It's  a  pretty  name/'  said  the  girl,  going  on 
to  the  house. 


"Maw,"  said  Belinda  the  next  morning,  when 
she  and  her  mother  were  alone  together  in  the 
kitchen,  "  I've  got  something  to  tell  you." 

"Well,  out  with  it.  " 

Belinda  was  making  tarts.  Mrs.  Davenport 
was  working  freshly  churned  butter  with  a  little 
curved  ladle.  She  stopped  abruptly  and  looked 
at  her  daughter. 

"  I  can  guess  what  you  got  to  tell."  She  gave 
her  head  a  little  toss.  "  I  only  wish  Mis'  Ran 
dall  was  here  to  hear  it." 

"  It  ain't  anything  she'd  want  to  hear,"  said 
Belinda,  hurriedly  ;  "  and  I  know  you  can't  guess, 
maw.  It's  —  " 

"Well,  jest  you  give  me  a  chance  to  try,  Missy. 
The  real  fact  is,  Belindy,  I've  always  b'en  wor 
ried  about  gitting  you  settled.  You  don't  seem 
to  take  with  young  men.  Of  course  I  never 
said  anything  to  you  about  it  before,  but  now  it 
can't  hurt  your  feelin's  none.  A  girl  that's  druv 
her  chickens  to  sech  a  market  needn't  care 
whether  she  took  with  other 'ns  or  not.  I've 
held  my  head  mighty  high  over  it,  but  it's  rankled 
an'  rankled  —  off ul.  An'  that  Mis'  Randall  has 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

said  such  spiteful  things ;  an'  then  to  think  of  a 
man  like  Mr.  San  —  " 

"  Maw,"  interrupted  Belinda,  sharply,  "just 
listen.  He's  engaged  to  —  to  a  girl  in  Fair- 
haven  ;  that  is,  he  used  to  be,  and  he  wants  to 
be  again." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  Mrs.  Davenport  sat  motion 
less.  Her  eyes  were  opened  wide  and  her  face 
was  pale. 

"  I  say  he  used  to  be  engaged  to  a  girl  in  the 
East,  and  she's  just  come  to  Fairhaven.  He's 
trying  to  make  up  with  her  —  they  fell  out  about 
something  or  other  —  and  he  wants  me  to  help 
him." 

"An'  he  wants  you  to  help  him!"  Mrs. 
Davenport's  pallor  was  giving  place  to  the  color 
of  a  star-fish.  "  How  does  he  want  you  to  help 
him  ? " 

"  He  wants  me  to  make  her  jealous." 

"  He  wants  you  to  make  her  jealous,  does 
he  ? "  Mrs.  Davenport  arose  and  set  the 
wooden  bowl  on  the  stove-hearth.  "  Belindy 
Davenport,  you  turn  around  here  so 's  I  can 
see  your  face.  Are  you  telling  me  the  truth 
in  that  ca'm  way,  or  is  this  one  o'  your 
fool  tricks  ? "  Her  voice  broke  on  the  last 
words. 

Belinda  faced  her  resolutely. 

"  It's  the  truth,  maw.     It's  the  honest  truth. 

156 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

He  only  asked  me  to  go  to  the  dance  to  make 
her  jealous  ;  he  said  so  himself." 

"  He  said  so  hisself,  did  he  ?  An'  you're 
standing  there  a-telling  me  that  to  my  face ! 
You  ain't  got  a  speck  o'  spunk  or  git-up  about 
you,  or  you  wouldn't  be  taking  it  that  way ! 
After  him  a-making  us  believe  he  wanted  to  be 
your  beau  —  " 

"Oh,  maw,  he  didn't  —  " 

"Yes,  he  did,  too.  'N'  after  me  a-telling 
Mis'  Randall  all  about  it  —  an'  about  his  being 
a  college  grad'yate,  an'  gitting  a  hunderd  an' 
fifty  dollars  a  month  an'  his  board." 

"  Oh,  maw ! "  Belinda  was  white  as  death 
now.  "  You  didn't  say  anything  to  Mis'  Ran 
dall,  did  you?  I  told  you  he  didn't  mean  any 
thing." 

"Well,  I  didn't  believe  you.  She's  always 
a-bragging  about  her  Elviry  havin'  so  many 
beaux,  so  I  just  went  right  over  an'  up  an'  told 
her  about  Mr.  Sanderson  wanting  to  be  your'n." 

"Oh,  how  could  you  —  how  could  you  ?  " 

Belinda  sat  down  helplessly.  Her  eyes  had  a 
strained  look. 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  and  her  countenance 
softened.  "  Belindy,"  she  said,  "  you're  pretend 
ing  you  don't  care,  but  you  do  care  —  an'  that's 
a  good  sight  more  to  me  than  what  Mis'  Ran- 
dall'll  say  when  she  hears." 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

For  a  moment  the  girl  was  tempted  to  go  to 
her  mother  and  lay  her  head  on  her  breast  and 
sob  her  heart  out.  Then  she  shrank  a  little 
closer  into  her  chair ;  her  shoulders  drooped 
listlessly ;  her  head  sunk  with  a  movement  of 
despair. 

Her  mother  bent  over  her  and  touched  her 
hair  with  fingers  that  were  tender  notwithstand 
ing  their  roughness. 

"Just  tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  help  you, 
Belindy.  I'd  always  hoped  you'd  have  a  happier 
life  'n  I'd  had ;  but  I  guess  there  ain't  much 
chance  fer  women  out  here  'n  the  backwoods." 
She  sighed  —  unconsciously,  but  it  was  a  sigh 
that  helped  the  girl  as  nothing  else  could  have 
done.  She  lifted  her  head  and  shoulders,  and 
smiled  with  brave  lips. 

After  a  moment  she  stood  up  by  the  table  and 
began  dropping  jelly  again  into  the  golden  rims. 
She  held  the  spoon  firmly. 

"  I'll  get  along  all  right,  maw,"  she  said, 
gently.  "  I'll  help  him  make  up  with  her,  and 
they'll  never  know  anything  about  it.  She's 
pretty — and  sweet;  and  he'll  be  a  good  deal 
happier  with  her  than  he'd  have  been  with  me 
—  even  if  he'd  thought  about  it." 

She  opened  the  oven  door  and  put  her  hand 
inside  to  test  its  heat.  As  she  arose  her  eyes 
came  level  with  the  window.  Far  away  at  the 

158 


BELINDY  S    ONE    BEAU 

top  of  the  blue  hills,  pushing  aside  a  veil  of 
purple  mist,  Mount  Baker  swelled,  white  and 
glistening,  into  an  apricot  sky.  The  noble  maj 
esty  of  that  lonely  dome  touched  the  girl's  soul. 
A  look  of  exaltation  came  upon  her  face  —  the 
victory  of  the  soul  over  the  passions. 


MIS'   BUNNELS'S   FUNERAL 


MIS'   BUNNELS'S   FUNERAL 

"Ma!    Ma!    Oh,  ma!    Where  are  you ?" 

"  Here,"  said  Mrs.  Torrance.  She  was  stoop 
ing  to  put  a  pan  of  biscuits  in  the  oven.  She 
held  one  floury  hand  over  them  to  test  the 
heat.  "  What  you  making  such  an  all-fired  fuss 
about  ? " 

"Mis'  Bunnels  is  dead  an'  her  little  boy's 
come  up  to  see  if  you  can't  come  down  reel 
quick  and  lay  her  out.  He's  a-crying." 

"  My  mercy  !  "  Mrs.  Torrance  stood  up,  tall 
and  spare,  and  looked  at  her  daughter.  The 
swift  internal  struggle  to  assume  an  expression 
suitable  to  the  occasion  brought  a  flush  to  her 
thin  cheeks.  The  young  girl  returned  her  look 
in  large-eyed  suspense.  She  held  one  hand  on 
her  flat  chest,  breathing  excitedly  but  noiselessly. 
"Tell  him  I'll. come  down  direckly  —  direckly ! 
My,  ain't  that  awful !  All  them  little  childern, 
too ! " 

She  sunk  upon  a  chair  weakly.  Her  face  was 
as  gray  as  ashes.  "Belle  Squiers,"  she  said, 
when  the  girl,  still  trying  to  quiet  the  unwonted 
fluttering  of  her  chest,  came  back,  "how  many 
childern  'd  she  hev  ?  Five,  wa'n't  it  ? " 

163 


MIS*    BUNNELS'S    FUNERAL 

"No,  ma;  six." 

"  Ain't  that  awful  ?  An'  him  as  onery  as  any 
thing.  Stingy  !  I  don't  suppose  the  poor  creat 
ure  has  a  decent  set  o'  underclo's  to  lay  her  out 
in.  That's  her  own  fault,  though,  for  she  was 
shif'less.  Belle  Squiers,  if  I  sh'u'd  die  of  a  sud 
den,  you'll  find  a  nice  outfit  in  the  bottom  tray  of 
the  brass-bound  trunk  up  in  the  attic.  I  believe 
in  being  provided.  But  she  was  so  shif'less. 
Not  that  I  was  ever  caught  a-saying  anything 
ag'in  anybody  after  they're  dead.  Belle  Squiers, 
did  you  ask  what  she  died  with  ? " 

"Oh,  If  ergot!" 

"  Mercy,  child,  you'll  ferget  your  head  yet. 
Well,  I'll  go  right  down.  You'll  hev  to  step 
around  spry  an'  fix  your  pa's  dinner.  Don't  fer 
get  them  biscuits  in  the  oven.  There's  a  dish 
o'  smear-case  out  in  the  cellar.  An'  there's  a 
plenty  of  scriddlings  to  warm  over.  Now,  be 
sure  you  git  the  skim-milk  an'  don't  interfere 
with  the  cream.  If  I  ain't  home  by  nine  o'clock 
you'll  know  I've  stayed  all  night.  I  wonder 
what  minister  they'll  hev !  She  was  a  Luthern 
—  an'  there  ain't  no  Luthern  minister  nearder  'n 
Tacoma.  Mr.  Bunnels  'u'd  never  go  to  that 
expense." 

She  stepped  into  a  small  bedroom  that  opened 
into  the  kitchen,  and  hurriedly  combed  her  hair 
and  put  on  her  black  alpaca  dress —  second  best. 

164 


MIS*    BUNNELS'S    FUNERAL 

She  returned  to  the  kitchen,  tying  her  bonnet- 
strings.  "  Belle  Squiers,  you  fix  this  bow  proper, 
will  you  ?  My  fingers  ain't  as  soople  as  they 
used  to  be.  I'm  all  trembly,  too,  now.  My 
knees  feel  as  if  they  was  about  to  give  way. 
Now,  let  me  see.  Oh,  yes !  You  tell  your  pa 
to  clean  up  the  spring-wag'n  fer  the  fun'ral. 
He'd  best  run  it  right  clown  into  the  crick  an' 
wash  it  good.  An'  he'd  best  let  the  curtains  all 
down  an'  wash  them,  too;  they  was  a  perfect 
disgrace  to  us  at  Mis'  Wells's  fun'ral.  An'  the 
wheels  'ad  ought  to  be  greased,  so  's  they  won't 
squeak  going  down  that  long  graveyard  hill.  I 
was  so  mortified  by  'em  at  Mis'  Wells's  fun'ral 
—  everybody  kep'  looking  around  so  !  Tell  him 
I  want  he  sh'u'd  put  in  four  seats.  There's 
enough  gray  blankets  to  go  on  'em.  They're  in 
the  chist  up-stairs." 

''Which  chist,  ma?" 

"  W'y,  the  green  one  we  brought  across  the 
plains  with  us  —with  the  leather  handles  !  Fer 
pity's  sake!  Belle  Squiers,  don't  you  know 
where  I  keep  the  bedclo's  yet  ?  What  makes 
you  ac'  the  dunce  so  ?  Foolhead  !  What  Vd 
become  o'  you  if  I'd  drop  off  ?  There  —  I  guess 
I'm  all  ready." 

She  walked  toward  the  door,  but  suddenly 
stopped  and  stood  in  a  ruminating  attitude. 
"Just  as  like  as  not,"  she  said,  in  a  kind  of 

165 


MIS'    BUNNELS'S    FUNERAL 

quelled  excitement,  "  that  Mis'  Bailey's  heerd  it 
an'  '11  git  there  an'  lay  her  out  ahead  o'  me ! 
It's  just  like  her  to  up  an'  push  herself  in  where 
she  ain't  wanted.  Her  taste  is  harrible  about 
such  things  —  the  way  she  laid  old  Miss  Hicks 
out  was  a  shame.  Twisted  her  neck  to  one  side 
to  make  her  look  keerless  !  I  wonder  Mr.  Hicks 
let  her." 

"You'd  best  hurry  up,  ma." 

"Well,  they've  sent  for  me  to  lay  Mis'  Bunnels 
out,"  said  Mrs.  Torrance,  closing  her  lips  with 
decision,  "an'  I'm  going  to  do  it.  If  Mis' 
Bailey's  been  an'  done  it  ahead  o'  me,  I'll  do 
't  all  over  ag'in  to  suit  my  own  taste  —  that's 
all  there  is  to  it !  " 

She  kissed  the  girl's  unresponsive  mouth  in  a 
grim,  compulsory  way,  and  went  down  the  path, 
stiffly  and  rapidly.  She  looked  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left.  At  the  bars  she  paused 
abruptly  and  turned. 

"  Belle  Squiers !  Belle  Squiers  !  " 

"  What  ? "  said  the  girl,  appearing  at  the  door 
with  a  shining  tin  plate  in  her  hands. 

"  Call  the  dog  back." 

"How?" 

Mrs.  Torrance  lifted  her  voice  shrilly.  "  I  say, 
call  the  dog  back,  will  you  ?  Are  you  gone 
deef?" 

She  let  down  one  bar  and  stooped  gingerly 
166 


MIS     BUNNELS  S    FUNERAL 

under  the  others.  Then  she  gathered  up  her 
dress  with  a  determined  air  and  stepped  on  her 
way.  The  girl  called  —  "  Hyer,  Jack !  Hyer, 
Jack !  Hyer,  hyer !  " 


The  Bunnels'  home,  noted  for  its  shiftlessness, 
had  taken  on  a  look  of  majesty.  The  front  door 
was  closed.  An  imposing  crape  streamer  hung 
motionless  from  the  knob.  For  once  all  the  dark 
green  shades  were  lowered  over  the  windows. 
Even  the  yellow  dog  sitting  on  the  steps  had  a 
look  of  dignity,  freshly  put  on  for  the  occasion. 

Several  "  neighbor  men  "  stood  in  one  corner 
of  the  yard,  talking  in  subdued  and  mysterious 
tones.  The  lower  sash  of  one  of  the  parlor 
windows  was  lifted  about  four  inches.  Mrs. 
Torrance  didn't  like  "  the  looks  "  of  it.  It  seemed 
significant.  She  quickened  her  steps,  going 
around  the  house  to  the  back  door.  She  bowed 
mournfully  as  she  passed  the  group  of  men.  She 
gave  a  solemnly  surreptitious  glance  to  each 
window  as  she  passed. 

As  she  stepped  on  the  back  porch,  carefully 
letting  down  her  dress  skirt,  the  door  opened, 
swiftly  but  noiselessly.  Mrs.  Bailey  appeared. 
There  was  a  basin  in  her  hand  and  an  expression 
of  mingled  importance  and  command  on  her  face. 
167 


MIS     BUNNELS  S    FUNERAL 

She  started  at  sight  of  Mrs.  Torrance  and  said  — 
"  Oh  !  "  Her  tone  and  look  could  not  have 
been  considered  altogether  expressive  of  pleasure. 
The  two  women  looked  at  each  other  steadily. 
The  lines  of  determination  deepened  around 
Mrs.  Torrance's  mouth.  Mrs.  Bailey  had  paused 
so  suddenly  that  the  water  in  the  basin  swayed 
up  to  the  brim  in  a  bulk ;  a  little  of  it  leaped 
over  and  splashed  down  at  Mrs.  Torrance's  feet. 
It  worked  like  a  challenge. 

"  I've  come  to  lay  Mis'  Bunnels  out,"  she  said, 
with  firmness. 

Mrs.  Bailey  stood  her  ground.  She  smiled 
solemnly  —  one  of  those  spectral  smiles  that  are 
seen  only  at  funerals ;  her  lips  drew  backward, 
but  every  other  feature  sternly  protested  that  no 
smile  was  intended.  In  a  second  her  face  was 
as  if  the  smile  and  the  protest  had  never  been. 

"  It's  all  done,"  she  said.  At  any  other  time  one 
would  have  said  that  her  tone  was  triumphant. 

"Done!"  repeated  Mrs.  Torrance,  sternly. 
"  Who's  pushed  theirselves  in  an'  done  it  ? " 

"  I  have."  The  smile  came  again  and  lingered 
longer  than  before. 

"  Well,  she  wanted  I  sh'u'd  do  it.  They  sent 
after  me  a-purpose  to  come  an'  do  it." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Bailey,  in  a  tone  that  was 
meant  to  put  an  end  to  the  matter,  "  it's  all  done. 
I  got  here  first  an'  done  it." 
168 


She  threw  out  the  water  and  set  the  basin  on 
a  bench,  leaning  it  on  the  edge  to  drain. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ? "  she  said,  civilly,  feel 
ing  that  she  was  mistress  of  the  situation,  and, 
until  the  funeral,  the  house  as  well. 

"  That's  what  I  come  fer,"  said  Mrs.  Torrance, 
haughtily. 

She  walked  into  the  kitchen,  removed  her  wraps 
and  hung  them  methodically  on  pegs  in  one 
corner.  Then  she  said,  briefly  —  "Where's  Mis' 
Bunnels  at?" 

"  She's  in  the  parlor.  I  wouldn't  go  in  right 
off,  if  I  was  you  —  Mr.  Bunnels  an'  the  childern 
's  in  there,  a-taking  on." 

Mrs.  Torrance's  curiosity  got  the  better  of 
her  indignation. 

"  A-taking  on  ! "  she  repeated,  in  a  whisper. 
"  Him  !  I  guess  not.  What  'id  she  die  with  ? " 

Mrs.  Bailey's  face  took  on  a  look  of  mystery 
and  subtle  suggestion.  "  That's  what  we  don't 
none  of  us  know,"  she  said,  taking  up  the  stove- 
hook  and  tracing  imaginary  letters  on  the  stove 
with  it.  "  1  reckon  Mr.  Bunnels  hisself  don't 
know.  There  was  nobody  here  but  him  an' 
the  childern.  This  stove  ain't  been  blacked 
fer  months  —  it's  all  foxy  !  It  was  mighty 
sudden." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  Mrs.  Bailey  leaned 
toward  her  neighbor  and  said,  sinking  her  voice 
169 


to  a  whisper  —  "She  didn't  so  much  as  have  a 
decent  set  o'  underclo's  to  lay  her  out  in ! " 

"  I  want  to  know ! "  whispered  back  Mrs. 
Torrance.  Her  breath  came  with  noiseless 
regularity.  She  sat  down  and  crossed  one  knee 
over  the  other.  Her  large  foot  pumped  up  and 
down  slowly  and  mechanically. 

"  I  had  to  send  Janie  a-slying  home  to  get  my 
own  set  that  was  put  away  to  lay  myself  out  in. 
The  idee  o'  not  having  such  things  all  provided 
beforehand ! " 

"It's  no  more  'n  I  expected.  It's  what  I  said  to 
Belle  Squiers.  What  dress  'id  you  pat  on  her  ? " 

"  W'y,  I  had  to  put  on  that  old  weddin'-dress 
o'  her  'n."  Mrs.  Bailey's  voice  was  fierce  with 
contempt ;  evidently  her  joyful  task  had  had  its 
bitters.  "Old  as  Methusalum,  an'  all  faded  in 
streaks !  Had  to  cut  the  basque  behind  to  git 
it  on.  I  wanted  he  sh'u'd  go  an'  git  some  white 
alpacky,  but  he  w'u'dn't !  'D  you  ever  hear  tell 
o'  anything  so  mean?  It  w'u'dn't  of  cost  over 
five  dollars  or  so.  I  went  an'  got  a  white  lace 
fishy,  an'  had  it  booked  to  him.  He  can  put 
that  in  his  pipe  an'  smoke  it." 

"  I  don't  consider  that  white  alpacky  'u'd  of 
been  proper,"  said  Mrs.  Torrance,  firmly.  Her 
feeling  of  injury  was  returning,  now  that  her 
curiosity  was  partially  gratified. 

"Well,  that's  what  'u'd  of  gone  on  her  if  he 
170 


MIS     BUNNELS  S    FUNERAL 

hadn't  of  been  so  plegged  stingy,"  said  Mrs. 
Bailey,  calmly.  "  I've  see  close  people  before, 
but  I  never  did  see  —  " 

She  interrupted  herself  with  a  violent  start 
and  commenced  dusting  the  stove-hearth  vigor 
ously  with  the  corner  of  her  apron. 

"  I  do*  know  exactly  what  to  have  for  dinner," 
she  was  saying  when  a  second  later  the  door 
opened  and  Mr.  Bunnels  entered.  Mrs.  Tor- 
ranee  got  up  and  shook  hands  with  him  stiffly 
and  solemnly.  Neither  spoke  until  the  silence 
grew  embarrassing ;  then,  Mrs.  Torrance  said 
—  "  Pfew  !  It's  awful  warm  in  here,  ain't  it  ?  " 
Mr.  Bunnels  agreed  that  it  was  and  went  on  out 
toward  the  stable. 

"Here  comes  Mis'  Grimm,"  announced  Mrs. 
Bailey,  peering  out  the  window.  She  held  the 
dotted  calico  curtain  cautiously  aside  and  flat 
tened  her  cheek  against  the  window-frame.  "  I 
don't  see  what  shes  comin'  fer !  She  wa'n't  no 
intimate  o'  Mis'  Bunnels's." 

"Mebbe  she's  come  to  lay  her  out,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Torrance,  with  dry  sarcasm.  "  Some  per 
sons  alwus  push  theirselves  in  so  where  they 
ain't  wanted.  Oh,  Mis'  Grimm !  It's  you,  is 
it  ? "  she  added,  in  a  tone  of  sepulchral  surprise 
as  the  lady  entered  noiselessly,  on  broad  tiptoe. 

"  My  !  "  whispered  Mrs.  Grimm,  beginning  to 
untie  her  bonnet  strings  from  beneath  her  per- 
171 


MIS     BUNNELS  S    FUNERAL 

spiring  double  chin,  "ain't  it  jest  awful  about 
Mis'  Bunnels  ?  I  dropped  everything  an*  run 
as  soon  's  I  heerd  it !  But  I  reckon  father'll 
know  enough  to  come  over  here  an'  git  some- 
thin'  to  eat  when  he  sees  there  ain't  nothin'  at 
home." 

"There  ain't  overly  much  room  here  fer  cotn- 
p'ny  to  eat  in,"  said  Mrs.  Bailey  with  chill  polite 
ness  and  a  hard  face. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Mis'  Bailey."  Mrs. 
Grimm  spoke  quite  cheerfully.  "  We  don't  ask 
things  to  be  jest  so  at  such  times.  I'll  go  right 
in  an'  lay  her  out  while  you're  a-gittin'  the 
dinner." 

"  She's  all  laid  out."  Mrs.  Bailey  spoke  with 
a  kind  of  fierceness.  She  began  to  fill  the 
tea-kettle,  walking  back  and  forth  between  the 
stove  and  the  water-bucket  with  long,  determined 
steps  ;  there  was  determination  in  the  very  rush 
of  the  water  from  the  dipper  into  the  kettle. 

"  All  laid  out !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Grimm,  weakly. 
Her  countenance  fell. 

Mrs.  Torrance  got  up  from  her  chair.  She 
gave  Mrs.  Grimm  a  significant  look.  "  Let's  go 
in  an'  survey  the  remains,  Mis'  Grimm,"  she 
said. 

They  went  into  the  adjoining  room.  Mrs. 
Torrance  closed  the  door  securely.  She  clutched 
Mrs.  Grimm's  sleeve  and  commenced  whisper- 
172 


MIS     BUNNELS  S    FUNERAL 

ing  excitedly.  She  trembled  with  indignation. 
"  Did  you  ever  hear  o'  such  a  piece  o'  brass, 
Mis'  Grimm  ?  They  sent  for  me  a-special  to 
come  an'  lay  Mis'  Bunnels  out,  an'  I  hurried 
with  all  my  power,  an'  when  I  got  here  —  if  she 
hadn't  up  an'  done  it  ahead  o'  me.  She  ain't 
got  a  par/zV/£le  o'  taste  in  such  things,  'ither !  " 

"  About  as  much  as  a  hen  !  " 

They  went  into  the  darkened  "  best  room  " 
and  stood  for  a  time  in  silence  looking  down  at 
the  poor,  tired,  dead  woman.  For  the  first  time 
since  her  girlhood  there  was  a  look  of  rest  — 
glad,  unfretting  rest  —  on  her  thin  face.  Her 
clumsy  hands,  knotted  with  toil,  and  the  bony 
wrists  were  folded  stiffly  over  her  flat  waist  — 
folded  forever  from  the  awful  cares  of  a  farmer's 
wife !  No  more  floors  to  scrub,  or  bread  to 
bake,  or  butter  to  churn  !  No  more  threshers 
to  cook  for  in  the  burning  summer  noons ! 
No  more  money  to  beg  for  with  hesitating  lips 
and  hopeless  eyes  — only  to  be  refused  !  Done 
forever  with  all  toil  and  all  passion  and  all 
despair  ! 

Her  coarse,  graying  hair  had  been  drawn  with 
painful  tightness  away  from  her  face.  The  old, 
dove-colored  wedding-dress,  faded  in  streaks  ac 
cording  to  the  severe  folds  in  which  it  had  lain 
out  of  sight  all  these  years,  added  a  touch  of 
pathos  that  ought  to  have  broken  the  husband's 


MIS*    BUNNELS'S    FUNERAL 


heart.  It  and  the  poor,  work-roughened  hands 
and  the  look  of  new,  unutterable  rest  —  what  a 
story  they  told ! 

It  was  a  story  that  appealed  to  the  two  women, 
although  they  did  not  realize  it.  At  the  moment, 
they  were  conscious  only  that  some  things  were 
not  arranged  in  harmony  with  their  own  taste 
in  such  matters.  With  whispers,  set  faces,  and 
surreptitious  glances  toward  the  closed  door, 
they  rearranged  the  dress,  the  hair,  the  flowers 
—  even  the  quiet  hands. 

"  Not  a  flower  in  her  hands ! "  whispered 
Mrs.  Torrance.  "  Did  you  ever  ?  We'll  put 
this  big  cally  lily  in  her  hand.  Ain't  it  a  nice 
big  one  ?  That  old  wedding-dress !  Ain't  he 
stingy,  though?" 

"  Stingy's  no  name  fer  't.  I  hear  her  beg 
him  fer  a  dollar  one  day,  an'  he  cries  out  — 
'  Dollar !  Where's  that  dollar  I  give  you  last 
week  ?  D'  you  think  I'm  made  out  o'  dollars  — • 
hey  ? '  She  begun  to  tell  him  what  she'd  done 
with  it,  but  he  jest  went  a-trompin'  away  to 
the  barn,  an'  her  a-runnin'  after  him  a-cryin'  an' 
a-tryin'  to  tell  him  oh-John-this-an'-that  what 
she'd  done  with  it  —  an'  him  jest  a-trompin' 
on  with  his  head  set  an'  that  little  strip  o' 
whisker  on  his  mule  chin  a-standin'  out  straight, 
as  if  he  didn't  hear  !  " 

The  door  opened  suddenly  and  Mr.  Bunnels 

174 


MIS     BUNNELS  S    FUNERAL 

entered.  He  carried  two  pots  of  blossoming 
geraniums.  "  Here's  some  posies,"  he  said,  with 
his  eyes  glued  to  the  floor.  "  You  can  cut  'em 
off  to  —  er  —  decorate." 

The  two  women  went  forward  with  guilty 
faces  and  took  the  pots.  "Do  you  mean  we 
s-h'u'd  cut  'em  all  off?"  asked  Mrs.  Grimm, 
mournfully,  Mrs.  Torrance  being  for  once  speech 
less. 

"Yes,  cut  'em  all  off.  They  ain't  none  too 
many  for  mother.  They  ain't  a  thing  too  many 
or  too  nice  for  mother.  I  tell  you  they  ain't- 
many  sech  women  as  mother  was.  Cut  'em  all 
off.  She  deserves  ev'ry  one  of  'em  —  besides, 
they're  gettin'  faded  an'  ain't  much  good  now, 
anyhow." 

"  Well,  it's  a  wonder  he  stirred  hisself  enough 
to  bring  in  a  flower,"  said  Mrs.  Torrance,  sud 
denly  finding  her  tongue  when  the  door  had 
closed  behind  Mr.  Bunnels.  "  Sakes  !  I  was  so 
afraid  he'd  heard  us,  but  I  guess  not.  I  wonder 
if  he'd  have  a  stroke  if  we'd  ask  him  to  buy  a 
little  ribbon  to  tie  'em  with ! " 

"  He'd  have  two.  She  looks  reel  nice,  now, 
don't  she,  in  spite  o'  that  old  faded  dress  ?  " 

"Yes,  she  does  so.  Now,  I'm  going  to  stay 
here  an'  see  that  nothing's  changed.  You  go 
an'  eat  your  dinner,  Mis'  Grimm,  an'  then  come 
an'  stay  here  while  I  eat.  I  want  to  see  Mis' 


MIS     BUNNELS  S    FUNERAL 

Bailey's  face  when  she  sees  what  we've  done. 
I  reckon  after  this  she'll  know  her  place." 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Torrance  and  Belle  Squiers  rode 
home  from  the  funeral  in  the  spring-wagon.  The 
curtains  had  been  washed  and  the  wheels  greased. 
The  four  gray-blanketed  seats  had  been  occupied 
by  wagonless  neighbors  who  had  all  been  dropped 
at  their  respective  homes.  Mrs.  Torrance  sat 
with  her  husband.  Immediately  behind,  on  the 
edge  of  the  seat,  erect  and  solemn-eyed  like  a 
youthful  spectre,  sat  Belle  Squiers. 

"  Well,  ma,"  said  Mr.  Torrance  at  last,  "  ev'ry- 
thing  went  off  nice.  Did  you  oversee  things  ? " 
He  looked  straight  ahead.  He  held  the  lines 
loosely  and  kept  them  undulating  along  the 
horses'  backs. 

Mrs.  Torrance  lowered  her  head  and  swelled 
out  her  neck  in  front  until,  thin  as  she  was,  she 
could  have  boasted  quite  a  respectable  double- 
chin. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  did." 

" Say,  ma,"  piped  out  Belle  Squiers,  "did  Mis' 
Bailey  git  there  ahead  o'  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  she  did.  Belle  Squiers,  she  up  an'  laid 
Mis'  Bunnels  all  out,  jest  as  I  said  she  would  ! " 

"Hunh!"  said  Mr.  Torrance.  He  looked 
176 


MIS'    BUNNELS'S    FUNERAL 

straight  down  the  road  which  ran  through  an 
emerald  wood  and  lost  itself  in  the  flushed  gold 
of  the  sunset. 

"Yes,  she  did.  But  /showed  her!  I  done 
it  all  over  ag'in,  to  suit  my  own  taste." 

A  look  of  admiration  glowed  upon  her  hus 
band's  face.  Still,  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  down 
the  road.  He  never  permitted  his  "women 
folks  "  to  perceive  that  he  was  proud  of  them. 
The  smallest  inclination  to  express  approval  of 
any  act  of  theirs  was  firmly  repressed. 

"An'  then  I  set  there  an'  set  there,  an'  see 
that  nobody  meddled,"  continued  Mrs.  Torrance. 
"  I'd  of  set  there  tell  the  Fourth  o'  July  but  I'd 
of  had  things  my  own  way.  Mis'  Bailey  didn't  git 
a  chance  to  change  so  much  as  a  scrap  o'  lace." 

"  I  want  to  know  —  hunh  !  "  said  Mr.  Torrance. 
"  Git  up,  Dick,"  he  added,  with  sudden  energy. 
"  Here's  the  barn-gate  a-standing  wide  open  an' 
you  too  durn  lazy  to  trot  in  !  Klk,  klk,  klk ! 
Ma,  I  see  that  brindle  heifer's  got  into  the 
orchud.  You  send  an'  drive  her  out,  will  you? 
She's  right  behind  the  dry-house  —  clost  to  the 
Norther'  Spy  tree." 


It  was  late  before  the  work  was  done  that 
night.     After  the  others  had  gone  to  bed  Mrs. 
177 


MIS     BUNNELS  S   FUNERAL 

Torrance  "  set "  the  bread,  beating  the  thin  bat 
ter  long  and  hard  with  her  large  hand.  She 
held  her  head  to  one  side  and  breathed  heavily. 

She  covered  the  bread  with  a  spotless  cloth 
and  placed  it  near  the  stove.  Then  she  went 
out  to  the  pump  to  wash  her  hands.  As  she 
stood  drying  them  on  the  long  towel  she  ob 
served  that  it  was  an  unusually  beautiful  night. 
She  walked  almost  unconsciously  out  to  the 
bars. 

It  was  the  blossom  time  of  the  year.  There 
was  a  sensuous  perfume  on  the  air  —  the  mar 
ried  breaths  of  all  blowing  things.  The  path 
was  bordered  with  white  and  lavender  lilacs. 
There  were  little  drifts  of  sweet  alyssum  and 
mignonette.  A  wistaria  hung  its  full  lavender 
clusters  over  the  porch.  A  large  bed  had  been 
given  entirely  to  clove  pinks. 

A  full  moon  moved  slowly  up  the  sky.  Long 
ago  it  had  shaken  itself  free  of  the  tree-tops  on 
the  mountain.  The  sky  was  a  deep  blue,  un 
troubled  by  a  cloud  ;  but  all  the  stars  were  burn 
ing  in  its  deeps.  Dews  sparkled  in  linked  chains 
on  flowers  and  leaves.  There  was  a  marsh  not 
far  away,  and  the  frogs  were  murmuring  drow 
sily,  as  if  asleep. 

Mrs.  Torrance  leaned  one  elbow  on  the  bars 
and  rested  her  cheek  on  the  back  of  her  closed 
hand ;  the  thin  layer  of  flesh  pushed  up  in 
178 


MIS     BUNNELS  S    FUNERAL 

wrinkles  under  her  temples.  With  the  other 
hand  she  held  her  skirts  up  high  out  of  the  dews. 
A  sudden  soft  wind  gathered  up  all  the  garden's 
perfume  and  shook  it  loose  about  her. 

"  My ! "  she  said.  "  Ain't  that  sweet,  though  ! " 
Her  thin  nostrils  expanded.  "  How  them  frogs 
keep  a-hollering  —  day  an'  night!  They  must 
holler  'n  their  sleep — a-dreaming,  mebbe.  Geese- 
heads  ! " 

She  stood  for  a  long  time  motionless.  Once 
or  twice  she  sighed  deeply.  The  poetry  of  the 
night  was  drawing  her  irresistibly. 

"  I  guess  poor  Mis'  Bunnels  is  a-taking  a  good 
rest,"  she  said,  softly.  "  She  ain't  a-worrying 
about  his  old  dollars  to-night.  My,  how  nice 
everything  smells !  I  never  see  sech  a  night. 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  ^ —  clear  off  spme'ers  where 
they  ain't  any  cows  to  milk  an'  ca'ves  to  wean. 
Jest  flowers  to  lay  down  in  an*  smell  of,  an'  little 
cricks  to  hear  go  a-babbling  by.  My  !  " 

There  was  another  silence  —  a  long  one.  Her 
poor  starved  soul  went  off  on  a  beautiful  journey 
about  which  she  would  never  dare  to  tell  her 
nearest  or  her  dearest. 

Suddenly,  somewhere,  a  calf  lifted  its  voice  in 
a  loud,  rasping  bawl.  She  gave  a  guilty  start 
and  turned  back  to  the  house.  "  I'll  have  to 
wean  that  heifer  to-morrow  —  sure,"  she  said, 
with  a  sigh.  "There!  I  hev  to  laff  when  I 


MIS*    BUNNELS'S    FUNERAL 

think  o'  poor  Mis'  Bailey.  I  guess  she'll  wait 
till  she's  sent  fer  after  this  !  I'm  reel  glad  that 
I  up  an'  outed  her.  Pa  is,  too,  only  he's  too  big 
a  stubborn-head  to  confess-up  to  it.  Well,  there ! 
I  can  afford  to  let  her  hev  the  pattern  o'  that 
log-cabin  quilt  now." 


180 


A   PASSION-FLOWER    OF   THE   WEST 


A   PASSION-FLOWER   OF   THE    WEST 

"  Drusilla  !  Dru-sil-la  !  " 

"Ye-es'm." 

"Why,  it's  past  four  o'clock  a'ready.  I  over- 
slep'  myself." 

To  this  came  no  reply. 

"  Drusilla !  Are  yuh  awake  ?  Answer  up. 
Yuh  wanted  I  sh'u'd  call  yuh  early,  so's  yuh 
c'u'd  pick  hops  an'  not  git  all  net  up  so.  Sleepy 
head  !  Wake  yourself  up  or  I'll  stand  here  an' 
holler  tell  noon." 

The  girl  turned  her  head  slowly  on  the  calico- 
covered  pillow ;  her  eyes  opened  sleepily  upon 
her  mother ;  a  faint  smile  curled  her  lips.  She 
saw  the  white  tent  arched  above  her.  Then  the 
soft  lids  sunk  languidly  again. 

"  Dru-silla  !  -  You'd  aggravate  St.  John  hisself ! 
You'd  —  " 

Mrs.  Peacock  hesitated,  overtaken  suddenly 
by  a  fear  that  she  might  possibly  have  named  a 
more  patient  saint  than  John. 

"Oh,  ma,  I'm  awake." 

"Well,  open  up  your  eyes  then,  so's  I'll  know 
it.  You'll  have  to  hurry  up  if  yuh  pick  many 

183 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

hops  while  they're  heavy.  I  bet  a  picayune  that 
she-ca'f  of  a  Grandy's  out  a-pickin'  a' ready.  Not 
as  she'll  pick  very  many,  though,  if  Elmer  Mc- 
Goon's  a-pickin'  within  reach  o'  that  long  tongue 
o'  her  *n,"  she  added  with  a  diplomacy  that  was 
laudable  at  so  early  an  hour. 

Drusilla  opened  her  eyes  suddenly.  She  was 
wide-awake  now. 

"  You  go  back  to  bed,  ma,  an'  I'll  get  right 
up."  She  broke  out  laughing  merrily.  "  I  wish 
you  c'u'd  see  yourself.  You  look  so." 

Mrs.  Peacock  turned  huffy  in  a  twinkling. 

"Well,  how  d'  I  look,  she-ca'f?  What  ails 
me?  Aigh?" 

"Oh  —  that  calico  thing  you've  got  on  you," 
said  Drusilla,  still  laughing.  "An'  that  little 
rag  of  hair  bobbin'  down  your  back;  an'  that —  " 

"  Well,  yuh  you  can  hold  your  tongue  if  that's 
all  you've  got  to  do.  A-makin'  fun  o'  your 
mother  !  I'd  be  ashamed  o'  myself.  After  my 
a-gettin'  up  at  this  hour  to  call  yuh." 

She  stepped  gingerly  across  the  tent  and  got 
into  her  "  bunk,"  turning  her  broad  back,  with 
a  great  air  of  wounded  love,  to  her  irreverent 
offspring. 

It  was  just  five  o'clock  when  Drusilla  went 

singing  down  through   the  beautiful   hop-field. 

The  tall  vines  arched  and  met  above  her.     It 

was  like  walking  through  a  long,  emerald  tunnel. 

184 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

The  hops  hung  in  pale  green  clusters  along  the 
broad,  darker  green  leaves.  A  soft,  continuous 
music  —  as  of  low  winds  among  the  tasselled 
corn  —  went  with  her  as  she  walked. 

In  half  an  hour  the  sun  would  come  strug 
gling  up  the  rugged  side  of  Mount  Rainier. 
Pale  primrose  and  salmon  clouds  were  already 
mounting  lazily  the  pearl-colored  sky  to  herald 
his  proud  coming.  The  white  mist  of  late  sum 
mer,  blown  in  from  Puget  Sound,  swam  from 
the  depths  of  the  green  valley  to  the  snow  moun 
tains.  A  meadow-lark's  pure  notes  uprose  from 
the  open  spaces ;  and  from  the  fringe  of  trees 
far  down  the  valley,  where  the  White  River 
went  winding  through,  came  back  the  clear,  joy 
ous  replies. 

Drusilla  set  her  basket  on  the  ground.  It 
was  all  soft  twilight  where  she  stood.  The 
stars  still  shone  palely  above  her.  Some  one 
came  whistling  down  behind  her.  She  did  not 
look.  She  pretended  that  she  did  not  hear. 
But  the  color  came  throbbing  to  her  cheeks,  — 
that  rare,  ravishing  color  that  goes  with  red- 
gold  hair. 

"  Hold  on,  Drusilla,"  called  a  gay  voice.  "  I'll 
take  that  pole  down  for  you." 

She  looked  toward  him  with  a  start  that  was 
very  well  done,  indeed. 

"Oh  —  you?"  she  said. 
185 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

"Of  course, — me.  Who  else  Vd  get  up  at 
daylight  just  to  have  an  hour's  pickin'  alongside 
o'  Drusilla  Peacock  ? " 

She  threw  her  hand  out  with  a  coquettish 
movement. 

"  Go  on  !  You  did  it  to  pick  while  the  hops 
are  heavy." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  held  it. 

"Drusilla,  you  know  that  ain't  so.  Say,  you've 
got  the  prettiest  hand  on  the  whole  hop-ranch. 
It's  all  scratched  up  though,  now,  with  the 
vines." 

"How  d'  you  know  it's  the  prettiest?"  de 
manded  the  girl,  shrewdly.  "  Have  you  been 
goin'  around  holdin'  all  of  'em  ?  " 

Many  a  more  polished  gentleman  has  been 
disconcerted  by  a  similar  question.  Elmer  Mc- 
Goon  reddened. 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  You  take  a  fellow  up  so ! 
Drusilla,  what  makes  you  take  a  fellow  up  so  ? 
I'm  goin'  to  make  you  pay  for  bein'  so  sassy." 
He  attempted  to  draw  her  to  him  ;  but  she  re 
strained  him  with  the  stern,  level  look  which,  in 
a  woman's  eyes,  is  stronger  than  any  weapon. 
"  Don't,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"  Don't  ?  Why  not  ?  I  want  to  kiss  you. 
Drusilla,  you're  the  only  girl  on  earth  that 
always  hollers  *  don't.'" 

"Am  I  ?"  she  said,  coldly. 
186 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF   THE    WEST 

He  colored  again. 

"  There  you  go  —  takin'  me  up  again.  I 
can't  say  anything.  Drusilla,  I  love  you  !  " 

The  girl  looked  at  him,  smiling ;  but  her  eyes 
were  sad. 

"  Do  you  ? "  she  said,  gently. 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  but  you  never  believe  a  word  I 
say." 

"  Well,  take  down  the  pole  an'  we'll  go  to 
pickin'.  I  want  to  stop  early  to-night,  so  's  to 
have  time  to  get  ready  for  the  dance." 

"Oh,  yes.  You're  goin'  to  dance  every  waltz 
with  me,  an'  the  mazooka." 

"  Am  I  ? " 

"Yes,  you  'am.  Here's  your  pole.  Ain't 
this  great  ?  Just  look  out  the  end  of  the  rows 
an'  see  the  sky  there  'n  the  East !  Pretty  near 
sun-up." 

The  girl  looked  wistfully. 

The  sky  was  a  pale  green  now.  Across  it 
reached  long,  trembling  rays  of  crimson  and 
violet.  The  frozen  chain  of  Olympics  was  melt 
ing  in  a  golden  fire.  The  white  mist  on  the 
valley  was  shaken  through  with  rose.  There 
was  a  marvellous  halo  on  the  lofty  brow  of  Rai 
nier.  Far  off  the  larks  were  still  lifting  their 
notes  of  praise,  but  under  those  tall  vines  there 
was  deep  silence,  save  for  the  low,  rippling  mur 
mur  of  the  leaves,  one  against  the  other. 
187 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

"Ain't  this  jolly,  though!"  spoke  up  the 
young  man,  cheerfully. 

But  the  girl  put  out  her  hand. 

"Oh,  hush!"  she  breathed  softly  through 
parted  lips. 

"It  is  too  beautiful  to  talk  about.  It's  like 
what  they  put  on  the  brow  of  Christ  in  the 
pictures." 

The  young  man  laughed  in  an  embarrassed 
way. 

"Oh,  say,  now,  Drusilla." 

"It  is.  Oh,  Elmer,"  —  she  turned  her  deep, 
asking  eyes  upon  him  ;  her  voice  was  but  a 
whisper  —  "do  you  s'pose  God  puts  it  there?" 

"  '  God  '  ? "  repeated  Elmer,  stupidly.  "  Dru 
silla,  have  you  gone  clean  daft  ?  Say  !  Puts  — 
what —  where  ?  " 

"  W'y,  —  all  them  little  streaks  of  gold  run 
ning  up  from  the  top  of  Mount  Rainier.  It's 
like  what  they  paint  on  the  brow  of  Christ.  I 
forget  what  they  call  it." 

"  They  call  it  a  hello,"  said  the  young  man 
with  a  great  air.  "  It's  wicked  to  talk  about 
sech  things,  Drusilla." 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  it's  wicked."  She  spoke  sim 
ply.  "You  don't  understand,  Elmer."  Tears 
flashed  suddenly  into  her  eyes.  She  moved  to 
him  and  leaned  her  beautiful  young  body  sweetly 
upon  him.  "  Oh,  Elmer,"  she  said,  very  sadly, 
188 


A    PASSION-FLOWER   OF   THE   WEST 

"you  say  you  love  me,  an'  I  know  I  love  you  ; 
but  can't  you  see  how  far  apart  we  are  ?  When 
we  are  alone  you  always  want  to  be  kissin'  me 
to  show  your  love  ;  an'  / —  " 

"Well, —an'  you?" 

"  I  want  to  be  oh  !  so  still,  an'  not  talk  or 
touch  you ;  just  to  set  close  to  you,  —  an'  then," 
—  she  spoke  diffidently  now,  with  lowered  eyes, 
the  tears  still  on  her  lashes,  —  "if  it's  late  at 
night  or  early,  like  this,  in  the  mornin',  an'  very 
still,  I'm  so  happy  that  it's  like  pain ;  an'  I 
have  the  queerest  feelin',  Elmer,  that  I  can  — 
can — " 

"  Can  what  ?  " 

"Can  — hear  God  breathe." 

There  was  a  long  silence.     Then  — 

"  '  Hear  —  God— breathe ' ! "  repeated  Elmer, 
in  a  stupefied  way.  He  drew  a  long  breath, 
helplessly.  His  brown  face  was  a  study.  But 
he  was  a  good  swimmer.  He  always  came  up 
out  of  the  deepest  waters  like  a  cork.  After  a 
moment  he  commenced  patting  her  on  the  back 
with  a  most  beautiful  indulgence,  considering. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  we'd  best  get  to  pickin'  hops, 
Drusilla,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "It's  nice  an' 
coolish,  an'  they  weigh  heavier  with  the  doos  on 
'em.  I  see  yesterday  that  the  siwashes  picked 
more  'n  the  whites." 

"That  so?"  said  Drusilla,  coldly.  She  drew 
189 


A    PASSION-FLOWER   OF   THE    WEST 

herself  from  him  with  a  hurt  look  and  began 
picking  the  soft  green  clusters  and  dropping 
them  into  the  large  box  he  had  placed  between 
her  pole  and  the  one  he  had  pulled  down  for 
himself.  Somewhere  a  gay  voice  —  a  woman's 
voice  —  called : 

"  Hop-pole  !     Hop-pole  !     Ha-ah-op-pole  !  " 

It  was  answered  by  shouts  and  calls  and 
laughter  from  all  parts  of  the  field.  The  pick 
ers  were  swarming  down  to  work, — young  and 
old,  women  and  men,  white  people,  Indians  and 
half-breeds.  The  sun  lay  throbbing  on  the  crest 
of  Mount  Rainier,  and  all  the  mists  were  flee 
ing  away,  like  frightened  sheep,  to  the  sea. 

"  Well,  you  may  shoot  me  dead,"  exclaimed 
her  mother's  voice,  suddenly,  behind  them,  loud 
and  rasping,  "  if  you've  picked  enough  hops  to 
hide  a  flea  in  !  After  my  a-gittin'  up  at  four 
o'clock,  an'  a-callin'  yuh  to  pick  so's  yuh  w'u'dn't 
git  het  up  so,  — an'  while  the  hops  is  heavy,  — 
an'  a-layin'  awake  all  this  time  because  I  c'u'dn't 
git  to  sleep  ag'in,  here  yuh  ain't  got  enough 
hops  to  smell  of  !  Yuh  may  shoot  me  dead  ! " 

At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  the  big  barn  was 
lighted  up  for  the  dance.  The  hop  ranch  was 
one  of  the  largest  in  the  State.  The  owner 
was  wealthy  and  generous.  It  was  his  pleasure 
to  provide  for  the  comfort  and  enjoyment  of 
those  who  for  a  few  weeks  each  year  peopled 
190 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

his  fields.  There  were  clean  "  shacks  "  for  those 
who  did  not  prefer  tents  to  live  in.  There  were 
bath-houses  down  on  the  river ;  and  the  floor  of 
the  barn  had  been  laid  of  smooth,  narrow  boards, 
for  dancing  on  Saturday  nights.  It  was  inti 
mated,  however,  by  his  neighbors,  that  he  was  as 
"long-headed  "  as  he  was  benevolent.  The  best 
and  swiftest  pickers  came  each  year  to  his  fields. 
Hop-picking  is  considered  a  great  "lark"  in  the 
State  of  Washington.  Young  folks,  weary  of 
the  monotony  and  loneliness  of  farm  life,  go 
eagerly  to  the  hop-fields  —  not  so  much  for  the 
couple  of  dollars  which  each  will  earn  daily,  as 
for  change  and  companionship,  for  the  break  in 
the  dull  round  of  their  lives,  the  making  of  new 
acquaintances,  the  pleasures  of  the  nights  that 
follow  the  days  of  toil.  The  weekly  dances  are 
great  events.  There  are  hopes  and  ambitions, 
and,  alas  !  passions,  in  these  beautiful  hop-fields, 
as  in  higher  places. 

Drusilla  walked  through  the  soft  dusk  to  the 
barn  with  Elmer  McGoon.  He  had  put  his  arm 
through  hers,  country-fashion,  and  folded  his 
warm,  thick  fingers  about  her  slim  wrist.  His 
face  was  freshly  shaven  and  red ;  he  was  breath 
ing  rather  excitedly  ;  the  outreaching  music  of 
the  violins  had  put  a  sudden  spring  into  his 
usually  heavy  carriage  ;  he  held  his  head  high 
and  tramped  along  in  the  narrow  path,  while 
191 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE   WEST 

Drusilla  stumbled  contentedly  over   clods  and 
stones  and  tangles  of  grass  at  his  side. 

"  Don't  go  quite  so  fast,  Elmer,"  she  said,  at 
last.  "I  keep  a-stumblin'  so." 

"  Whatchasay  ?  " 

"  W'y,  —  I  say,  don't  go  quite  so  fast ;  I  keep 
a-stumblin'." 

"  Oh  !  "  He  walked  more  slowly,  but  still  with 
a  high  head  and  a  determined  chin.  "  If  you'd 
watch  your  path  instid  of  gazin'  at  the  stars  so 
all  the  time,  'Silla,  you  wouldn't  stumble  so." 

"There  don't  seem  to  be  much  path,  does 
there  ?  " 

"W'y,  yes,  there  is  so;  there's  a  reel  good  one." 

"Well,  let's  walk  slow, — reel  slow  ;  it's  awful 
nice  out  here."  The  poetry  of  the  night  was 
beginning  to  steal  upon  the  girl's  senses.  She 
drew  in  her  breath  noiselessly  "  Elmer,  don't 
you  think  the  wind  in  the  hop-vines  sounds  just 
like  beautiful  music  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  think  so." 

"  Well,  listen.     You  hear  it  now,  Elmer  ? " 

"  Huckleberries  !  Drusilla,  you  do  beat  all ! 
Them's  the  fiddles." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  the  fiddles.  There's  an 
other  music  besides  them." 

"  Well,  /  don't  hear  it.  Let's  go  on.  They'll 
be  havin'  the  march  before  we  get  there  if  we 
fool  much  longer." 

192 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

"  I  believe  this  is  nicer  than  dancin',  Elmer, 
—  bein'  out  here  all  alone." 

"  Is  it  ? "  The  gentleman's  voice  held  a  note 
of  doubt. 

Drusilla  stopped  abruptly.  "Oh,  look  — 
look  quick,  Elmer  !  " 

"  Look  —  where  ?  What's  the  matter  of  you 
now?" 

Usually,  only  a  married  man,  or  a  man  who 
has  endured  a  long  betrothal,  puts  that  emphasis 
on  the  word  "now"  in  such  a  sentence.  It 
means  a  great  deal. 

"  It  was  a  star  fallin'  —  " 

"  A  star  fallin' !  I  thought  choo  see  a  spook. 
Didn't  choo  ever  see  a  star  fall  before  ? " 

"  Ye-es,  —  but  they're  always  beautiful  to  see. 
Don't  you  think  so  ? " 

"I  don't  know  's  I  think  so." 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  very  softly,  "I  believe 
stars  are  the  souls  of  people,  —  I  mean  women  ; 
an'  every  one  comes  out  an'  watches  tell  it  sees 
somebody  it  loved  down  on  earth  die,  —  some 
man ;  and  when  he  is  doomed  to  hell  it  loves 
him  so  it  gives  up  heaven  an'  falls  to  him  —  " 

"I  don't  see  what  makes  you  think  all  the 
men  go  to  hell !  "  said  Mr.  McGoon,  huffily.  "  I 
reckon  some  women  get  there,  too." 

Drusilla's  thought  leaped,  like  a  flame  of  red 
lightning,  to  Hannah  Grandy,  —  the  only  woman 

193 


A    PASSION-FLOWER   OF    THE    WEST 

she  had  ever  been  able  to  picture  in  her  imag 
ination  as  an  occupant  of  that  undesirable 
place.  After  a  moment  she  said,  with  a  sigh, 
"  Well,  anyhow,  it's  just  the  time  for  fallin'  stars 
now." 

"  It's  just  the  time  for  dog-days,"  said  Mr. 
McGoon,  distinctly. 

He  marched  up  the  steps  of  the  barn,  pulling 
his  companion  along  beside  him  with  a  deter 
mined  air.  He  had  decided  that  it  was  time  to 
be  at  the  dance ;  if  Drusilla  Peacock  wanted  to 
go  with  him  she'd  have  to  keep  up  with  him  ; 
if  she  didn't  want  to  she  could  stay  behind. 
When  a  woman  got  it  into  her  head  that  all  the 
women  went  to  heaven  and  all  the  men  to  some 
other  place  it  was  about  time  for  a  man  to  stop 
humorin'  her  and  put  his  foot  down ! 

Mr.  McGoon's  foot  was  large  and  heavy. 

The  barn  was  lighted  with  coal-oil  lamps,  set 
on  wooden  brackets,  with  reflectors  behind  them. 
Their  odor,  blent  with  that  of  perspiration,  was 
anything  but  pleasant.  The  floor  was  strewn 
with  fine  shavings  from  wax  candles.  The  two 
violinists  sat  on  large  drygoods  boxes  at  one  end 
of  the  room.  They  sat  with  their  legs  crossed 
and  their  heads  turned  to  one  side ;  their  eyes 
were  half  closed.  They  were  "tuning  up." 

Still  gripping  Drusilla's  wrist,  the  young  man 
led  her  into  the  march,  which  was  just  forming. 
194 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

Her  mother  smiled  proudly  upon  her  from 
amongst  a  dozen  other  mothers  sitting  in  one 
corner.  One  could  guess,  from  a  look  at  the 
faces  of  the  mothers,  whose  daughters  were  pro 
vided  with  partners,  and  whose  were  not. 

"  Look-ee ! "  said  Mrs.  Peacock,  nudging  her 
neighbor  with  a  large  elbow.  "  Here's  Drusilla." 

"Whereat?" 

"  W'y,  right  here  —  here.  She's  with  Elmer 
McGoon." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Fleming. 

"  Where's  your  Henrietta  at,  Mis'  Flemin'  ? 
I  don't  see  her  on  the  floor  anywheres." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Fleming,  frigidly. 

Mrs.  Peacock  stood  up  and  searched  the 
room. 

"W'y,  she  ain't  on  the  floor,"  she  said,  sitting 
down  with  a  troubled  look.  "Ain't  that  too 
bad  !  How  do  yuh  s'pose  that  happened  ?  There 
seems  to  be  plenty  o'  young  men.  Even  that 
Riley  girl's  got  a  pardner  —  an'  she  can't  dance 
for  shucks." 

"Henrietta  wa'n't  feelin'  overly  well,"  said 
Mrs.  Fleming,  keeping  her  chin  up. 

"  She'll  feel  better  if  she  gits  to  dancin'.  Oh, 
there  she  sets  over  there  all  alone.  We'll  have 
to  ask  somebody  to  dance  with  'er." 

"  She  can  git  a  plenty  pardners  without  askin'." 

"How?" 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

"  I  say  she  can  git  a  plenty  pardners  without 
askin'." 

"Oh,  can  she?  All  right,  then.  There's 
that  she-ca'f  of  a  Grandy!  If  she  ain't  got  on 
a  white  tarVtan  —  at  a  dance  in  a  barn  !  An'  a 
low  neck  an'  short  sleeves  —  " 

"  Well,  she  can  wear  a  low  neck  an'  short 
sleeves  ;  she  ain't  thin,  like  Drusilla.  She's  got 
a  beautiful  neck  an'  arms.  I  see  Elmer  McGoon 
keeps  a-lookin'  at  'er  mighty  close.  I  did  hear — " 

Mrs.  Peacock  turned  a  stern  gaze  upon  her. 

"  What  did  yuh  hear  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothin'  much.  Well,  then,  I  hear  that 
he  hangs  round  'er  a  good  deal.  They  take 
walks  sometimes  along  latish  in  the  evenin'." 

Mrs.  Peacock  fanned  violently  with  a  palm- 
leaf  ;  her  face  was  scarlet. 

"I  always  admire  to  see  the  grand  march," 
she  said.  "  Drusilla  goes  through  it  so  graceful. 
I  didn't  ketch  what  choo  said  about  the  Grandy 
girl,  but  it  ain't  no  matter.  I'd  be  ashamed  to 
wear  my  dress  that  way.  Modest  girls  don't 
doit."  ' 

"  Not  if  they're  thin  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Fleming, 
with  a  little  shrill  laugh. 

The  grand  march  ended  in  a  plain  quadrille. 
At  its  conclusion  Drusilla  was  led,  flushed  and 
fanning,  to  a  seat  beside  her  mother.  Her  part 
ner,  after  a  swift  glance  around  the  room,  with- 
196 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

drew  to  one  corner,  where  several  young  men 
stood,  industriously  wiping  their  necks  with 
their  handkerchiefs.  The  night  was  warm. 

The  next  dance  was  a  schottische  ;  then  came 
another  quadrille.  The  schottische  had  been  a 
torment  to  Drusilla.  She  had  had  a  poor  part 
ner,  but  she  could  have  borne  that  cheerfully  if 
only  Elmer  had  not  chosen  Hannah  Grandy. 
She  could  not  endure  the  sight  of  that  bare  arm 
on  his  shoulder  and  that  warm,  crimson  cheek 
so  close  to  his  lips.  And  what  a  red  fire  was  in 
the  girl's  black  eyes  when  she  lifted  the  languid 
lids  with  their  fringe  of  black  lashes !  Surely, 
surely,  there  was  a  new  fire  in  the  man's  eyes, 
too,  as  he  looked  down  on  the  beautiful  girl- 
woman  swinging  so  yieldingly  in  his  arms.  The 
lowliest  community  has  its  Delilah. 

Drusilla's  feet  lost  their  lightness. 

The  quadrille  was  better  ;  Elmer  was  not  even 
in  the  same  set  with  Hannah  Grandy.  Then  a 
large  card  with  "  Waltz  "  written  on  it  was  hung 
up.  Drusilla's  heart  commenced  to  beat  again. 
All  the  waltzes  were  hers.  But  the  master  of 
ceremonies  suddenly  climbed  upon  a  box  and 
shouted,  "  Ladies  take  their  choice  !  " 

There  was  the  usual  titter  among  the  girls ; 
the  young  men  fell  back,  smiling,  sheepish,  and 
stood  awkwardly  waiting  to  be  chosen.     Then 
there  was  a  flutter  and  a  scramble. 
197 


A    PASSION-FLOWER   OF    THE   WEST 

Drusilla  arose  and  made  her  way  modestly 
across  the  room.  When  within  three  steps  of 
Elmer,  Hannah  Grandy  flashed  past  her  and 
slipped  her  bare,  bangled  arm  through  his  and 
drew  him  away.  He  looked  down  into  her  eyes 
as  he  went,  and  Drusilla,  herself  unseen,  saw  the 
look. 

She  stood  still.  The  color  ebbed  out  of  her 
face,  the  smile  left  her  lips ;  the  lights  and 
the  people  went  swimming  dizzily  around  her. 
She  walked  slowly  back  to  her  mother.  She 
was  very  pale.  There  was  a  wide,  strained  look 
in  her  eyes. 

"Got  left,  did  yuh?"  said  Mrs.  Fleming, 
cheerfully. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Drusilla. 

"Well,  why  don't  choo  hyak,  as  the  siwashes 
say,  an'  choose  somebody  else  ? " 

"There  ain't  anybody  else  I'd  choose,"  said 
the  girl,  simply. 

"  I  w'u'dn't  be  such  a  heifer !  "  whispered  her 
mother,  fiercely.  "I'd  go  an'  get  somebody 
else." 

"I  don't  want  anybody  else." 

"  Well,  what  if  yuh  don't  ?  Ac'  as  if  yuh  do, 
anyhow.  Don't  ever  let  a  man  see  yuh  don't 
want  anybody  but  him,  gump." 

"Why  not?  I  believe  in  lettin'  people  see 
the  truth." 

198 


A    PASSION-FLOWER   OF   THE    WEST 

"  Oh  —gump  !  " 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  act  a  lie,  do  you  ? " 

"  Talk  low.  That  Mis'  Flemin'  '11  hear  yuh 
next.  I  don't  care  whuther  you  ac'  a  lie,  or  not. 
If  yuh  want  to  keep  a  man  in  love  with  yuh, 
yuh  have  to  ac'  as  if  you  didn't  care  too  much 
about  him.  He'll  git  tired  of  yuh  soon  as  he 
sees  he's  got  choo." 

"  I  don't  believe  it."  The  girl's  voice  was 
fierce  with  pain.  "  Not  if  he's  the  right  kind  of 
man  —  an'  if  he  ain't,  the  sooner  I  find  it  out, 
the  better." 

"Mule!" 

"  Well,  you  needn't  to  tell  me  that  if  a  man 
loves  a  woman  he'll  think  any  less  of  her  be 
cause  she  don't  act  flirty,  but  lets  him  see  she 
loves  him  an'  never  thinks  of  anybody  else." 

"Who  told  yuh  that?" 

"  Nobody  told  me.  I  feel  it.  I've  told  him 
now  that  I  love  him,  so  I'm  not  goin'  to  pretend 
to  anybody  I  don't." 

"  Yuh  ain't  got  a  bit  o'  spunk !  If  yuh've 
gone  an'  told  him  that,  before  he's  reg'lar  asked 
yuh  to  marry  him,  yuh'll  never  git  him  —  never 
-an'  that's  all  there  is  about  it."  Mrs.  Pea 
cock's  tone  was  full  of  bitterness. 

"Well,  I'd  rather  never  get  him  than  to  have 
to  be  dishonest  an'  act  a  lie,"  said  the  girl, 
proudly.  There  was  a  ring  in  her  voice  and  a 
199 


A   PASSION-FLOWER   OF    THE    WEST 

flash    in    her    glance    as    it    rested    upon    her 
mother. 

" —  had  spring  chicken  for  dinner,  fried"  said 
a  woman's  voice  behind  them,  exultingly.  "  It 
was  tender  as  tender.  An'  pickle-beets,  an' 
roastin'-ears,  an'  peaches-an'-cream.  I  tell  you." 

"Oh,  hush!— klk,  klk,  klk ! "  cried  another 
woman,  clapping  her  large  hands  together  in  a 
very  ecstasy  of  envy.  "  It  makes  my  mouth 
water  to  think  o'  sech  a  dinner  in  a  hop-field ! 
What  on  earth  did  you  fry  it  on  ?  " 

When  the  next  waltz  was  called,  Elmer  came 
and  stood  before  Drusilla.  He  expected  that 
she  would  rise  with  her  usual  joyousness.  She 
lifted  her  eyes  and  gave  him  a  gentle,  steady 
look.  His  eyelids  fluttered. 

When  a  man's  eyelids  flutter,  he  has  been 
doing  something  wrong. 

"This  is  our  waltz,"  he  said,  reddening  a 
little. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  simply;  "but  I  didn't 
know  's  you'd  come  for  me,  so  I  promised  to 
dance  it  with  Curley  Winston." 

Mrs.  Peacock's  heart  swelled  with  triumph. 
Had  Drusilla  got  her  spunk  up  ? 

The  young  man's  face  was  scarlet  now. 
"Well,  yuh  promised  it  to  me  first." 

"Yes,"    she    said,   distinctly;    "but   I   didn't 
know's  you'd  come  for  me." 
200 


A    PASSION-FLOWER   OF    THE    WEST 

He  stood  a  moment,  silent ;  then  he  said, 
sullenly,  "Well,  come  an'  have  some  lemon 
ade,  an'  we'll  see  about  this." 

She  arose  at  once  and  went  with  him. 

"Yuh  can  tell  him  yuh  promised  me  first," 
he  said,  holding  his  chin  up  and  lifting  his  feet 
high  as  he  walked. 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  do  that ;  he  never  served 
me  that  way." 

"Well,  I  ast  choo  for  this  waltz  at  five 
o'clock  this  mornin'." 

"  You  ast  me  for  all  the  waltzes,  Elmer." 

"I  — that  so?" 

"Yes,  that's  so.  I  went  to  get  you  for  the 
ladies'  choice,  an'  you  walked  right  off  with 
Hannah  Grandy." 

"Well  —  I  didn't  reckon  a — a  ladies'  choice 
counted." 

He  handed  her  a  glass  of  lemonade.  She 
held  it  and  looked  at  him  with  kind,  but  stern, 
eyes.  "Why  not?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  jest  why  not,"  he  said, 
helplessly.  "  She  come  along  an'  ast  me,  an' 
I  — went." 

"  Oh !  Then  if  she  come  along  an'  ast  you 
for  this  'n,  I  s'pose  you'd  go,  too." 

He  was  silent. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  dance  any  more  waltzes 
with  her,  Elmer  ?  " 

2OI 


A    PASSION-FLOWER   OF   THE    WEST 

"  Well,  I  —  did  ask  her  for  one  or  two  more," 
he  faltered,  miserably.  "  She  jest  as  good  as 
ast  me  to  ask  her,  —  so  I  hatto.  Here  comes 
that  galoot  of  a  Winston.  Now,  yuh  tell  him 
yuh  promised  this  dance  to  me." 

But,  still  with  that  look  of  gentle  patience 
on  her  face,  the  girl  walked  away  with  the 
other  man.  Elmer  stood  by  the  door  and 
watched  them.  There  was  a  black  frown  on 
his  brow. 

A  quadrille  followed  the  waltz.  He  had  en 
gaged  a  young  woman  for  the  dance ;  and 
when  he  had  reluctantly  led  her  out  on  the. 
floor  and  turned  an  uneasy  glance  around  the 
room,  he  found,  to  his  consternation,  that  Dru- 
silla  and  her  mother  were  quietly  taking  their 
departure  from  the  barn. 

Drusilla  walked  along  silently  beside  her 
mother  in  the  sweet  darkness.  "Yuh  keep 
your  spunk  up,"  said  that  lady  in  a  stern  whis 
per,  "  an'  yuh're  all  right." 

Drusilla  was  silent. 

"  Don't  keep  it  up  too  high,  though,"  added 
Mrs.  Peacock,  after  a  moment's  reflection.  "  Yuh 
hear  ? " 

"Yes'm." 

"  Well,  why  don't  choo  answer  ? " 

"  I  didn't  have  anything  to  say  's  the 
reason." 

202 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF   THE    WEST 

"  He's  dead  in  love  with  yuh  ;  a  body  can  see 
that  with  ha'f  a'  eye.  But  that  don't  hender  a 
man's  a-flirtin',  if  some  other  girl  flings  herself 
right  at  him." 

"  I  guess  it  henders  the  right  kind  of  a  man." 

"  Oh,  yuh  talk  so  !  There  ain't  any  right  kind 
o'  men." 

Drusilla  drew  a  long  breath  that  was  not  quite 
a  sigh. 

"Well,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  her  mother 
knew  and  dreaded,  "  I'll  never  get  married.  I've 
made  up  my  mind." 

"  Loon  !  "  cried  her  mother,  furiously.  "  Yuh 
ain't  got  a  speck  o'  sense !  Where'd  yuh  git 
your  idiotic  at,  I'd  like  to  know  !  Not  from  me  ! 
Yuh'd  go  an'  let  a  man  like  Elmer  McGoon  off 
the  hook  jest  because  he  danced  with  some  other 
girl !  I  reckon  yuh  expect  to  keep  him  tied  to 
your  apron-string  the  rest  o'  his  natural  life." 

"  It  wasn't  the  dancin',"  said  Drusilla,  clearly. 
"  It  was  the  —  principle.  He  knew  it  wasn't 
right  to  dance  with  her  when  he'd  ast  me ;  but 
he  jest  felt  like  doin'  it,  so  he  did,  right  or  wrong, 
an'  thought  I'd  overlook  it." 

"Any  girl  w'u'd,  if  she  had  any  sense." 

"  I  guess  I  ain't  got  any,  then,"  said  Drusilla, 

quietly,  pausing  for  her  mother  to  enter  the  tent. 

"  If  a  man  won't  take  the  trouble  to  keep  his 

word  an'  not  hurt  the  feelin's  of  the  girl  he  pre- 

203 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

tends  to  love,  before  he  marries,  he  won't  after 
wards." 

"  Yuri  fool,  you !  "  cried  her  mother,  groping 
into  the  dark  tent. 

The  girl  stood  for  a  moment  listening  to  the 
low  wind  rippling  the  hop-leaves.  Then  the 
barn  doors  were  opened  and  the  wail  of  the  vio 
lins  rose  and  fell.  Tears  came,  stinging,  to  her 
eyes.  She  went  into  the  tent  at  once,  bending 
through  the  opening,  over  which  she  closed  and 
buttoned  the  canvas  with  shaking  fingers. 


The  following  day  being  Sunday,  few  in  the 
hop-field  breakfasted  before  noon.  Drusilla  re 
mained  in  the  tent  all  day.  Her  mother  went 
around  visiting  among  the  other  tents  and  shacks 
in  the  afternoon.  In  the  evening  she  went  to 
the  services  in  the  little  white  school-house  down 
by  the  river. 

Just  as  the  sun  was  setting  Drusilla  heard  a 
step  outside  the  tent.  It  shambled  about  in  front 
of  the  door  for  a  minute  or  more ;  then  Mr.  Mc- 
Goon's  voice  said,  "  Drusilla !  " 

She  arose  at  once  and  opened  the  canvas  door. 

She  was  very  pale,  but  the  look  she  gave  him 

was  clear  and  steady.     She  wore  a  light  green 

linen  dress.     A  plume  of  rose-colored  fireweed 

204 


A    PASSION-FLOWER   OF    THE    WEST 

was  tucked  into  her  girdle.  She  had  never  looked 
prettier. 

"Well,  Elmer,"  she  said,  kindly,  "  you  come 
in  ? " 

He  twisted  awkwardly.  His  eyes  fastened 
hungrily,  from  under  their  fluttering  lids,  upon 
her  beauty. 

"Don't  choo  want  to  take  a  walk  down 
through  the  pasture  to  the  river? " 

She  hesitated.  "  I'd  just  as  soon,"  she  said, 
then. 

His  face  brightened. 

She  came  out  and  walked  lightly  along  beside 
him,  bareheaded.  The  sunset  falling  upon  her 
put  color  into  her  cheeks  and  turned  her  gold  hair 
to  a  deep,  beautiful  red.  The  soft  wind  blew 
short  locks  across  her  brow  and  temples. 

Cattle  and  sheep  were  lying  and  standing 
under  the  trees.  The  fireweed  lifted  its  rosy 
plumes  everywhere.  There  were  great  billows 
of  the  everlasting's  greenish  snow ;  the  golden- 
rod  put  up  its  lovely  spikes  among  the  ferns, 
and  there  was  many  a  gay  company  of  lavender 
asters.  The  banks  of  the  creeks  were  blue 
with  brooklime  —  that  daintiest  of  forget-me- 
nots. 

The  girl  saw  all  the  beauty  of  earth  and  sky, 
but  for  once  it  gave  her  no  pleasure.  It  seemed 
to  her,  as  they  walked  along  together  silently, 
205 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

that  every  flower  bending  toward  her  whispered  : 
"  It  is  the  last,  last  time  !  " 

They  came  finally  to  the  river  and  sat  down 
on  the  bank  under  a  maple-tree.  They  had  sat 
there  before,  —  was  it  only  three  days  ago  ? 
thought  the  girl.  It  seemed  like  months. 

The  river  moved  slowly  before  them,  bearing 
the  sunset's  deep  crimson  upon  its  breast.  There 
was  a  low  marsh  near  by,  wherein  grew  tall 
velvet  tules,  from  whose  cool  depth  came  the 
dreamy  murmur  of  the  frogs. 

"Drusilla,"  said  the  young  man.  He  looked 
at  her  with  miserable  eyes.  He  stretched  out 
a  big  warm  hand  and  laid  it  on  hers. 

She  trembled  strongly  ;  then  she  lifted  her 
level  look  to  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,  Elmer  ?  " 

"  Ain't  choo  a-goin'  to  forgive  me  for  —  oh, 
for  last  night,  you  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I've  already  forgiven  you." 

"  That's  a  brick  !  "  He  moved  closer  to  her. 
"  D'  yuh  know,  I  felt  all  broke  up  when  yuh  left 
the  barn  last  night  ?  " 

"  Did  you  ?  "  said  the  girl.  Her  voice  shook. 
This  was  her  life-tragedy ;  and  his  tone  betrayed 
unconsciously  that  to  him  it  was  only  a  comedy 
with  a  serious  vein  running  through  it. 

"Yes,  I  did.     Drusilla"  —  his  chin  went  up 
—  "  I'm  ready  to  marry  yuh  any  day  yuh  set." 
206 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  with  a  quick  sob,  a  dry  sob ; 
"  I  can't  marry  you,  Elmer —  never.  Don't  think 
about  it.  It's  —  it's  all  over." 

"  Can't  —  marry  —  me  !  "  He  stared  at  her. 
"Can't  —  marry  —  me!  Why,  what  on  earth's 
got  into  yuh,  now  ?  What's  all  over  ?  " 

"Our  —  our  goin'  together.  You  can  go  an' 
marry  —  Hannah  Grandy." 

"Oh,  Lord!"  said  Mr.  McGoon.  "Yuh're 
jealous  !  "  She  shrank,  as  if  from  a  rude  blow. 
"  Now  see  here,  Drusilla ;  I  don't  want  to  marry 
Hannah  Grandy.  I  give  yuh  my  word,  I  wouldn't 
marry  her  if  she  was  the  only  girl  on  Puget 
Sound." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  jest  why.  She  —  well,  she 
ain't  the  kind  of  girl  a  fellow  wants  to  marry,  yuh 
know.  She  —  oh,  she's  jest  the  kind  of  a  girl  to 
dance  with  —  er." 

"Oh,"  said  Drusilla,  putting  back  a  lock  of 
hair  with  a  steady  hand,  "you  want  to  marry  me 
an'  waltz  with  her!  Is  that  it  ?  " 

"Oh — huckleberries!"  said  Mr.  McGoon, 
elegantly.  "  I  never  see  your  beat  to  pin  a 
fellow  down !  It  ought  to  be  enough  for  yuh 
to  know  I  want  to  marry  yuh  an'  not  her." 

The  sunset  had  drawn  all  its  beautiful  colors 
away  from  the  valley  and  mountains,  and  borne 
them  to  some  other  where  across  the  sea.  Pearl 
207 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

and  lavender  clouds  were  piled  in  the  west. 
Venus  had  lit  her  splendid  lamp,  and  the  gold 
rim  of  the  harvest  moon  was  trembling  like  a 
thin  sickle  on  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

"  It's  not  enough,"  said  Drusilla.  "  I  love  you, 
Elmer,  but  I  can't  marry  you.  I  love  you  so  I 
never  could  have  a  thought  or  a  pleasure  that 
didn't  have  you  in  the  centre.  When  a  girl  loves 
like  that,  she  oughtn't  to  marry  anybody  that 
doesn't  love  her  just  the  same." 

"  Well,  if  I  didn't  love  yuh,  I  wouldn't  ask  yuh 
to  marry  me." 

She  turned  a  full,  slow  look  upon  him.  The 
exaltation  of  her  thought  shone  from  her  eyes 
and  lifted  even  him  a  little  out  of  his  animal 
ism. 

"  Love !  You  don't  know  what  love  is !  "  She 
breathed,  rather  than  uttered,  the  words.  "  You 
want  to  marry  me.  You  would  make  what  the 
world  calls  a  good  husband ;  you  would  give  me 
a  good  home  an'  a  hired  girl  —  perhaps,  even,  a 
set  of  hair-cloth  furniture."  A  miserable  smile 
moved  her  lips.  "  You  would  set  me  down  in 
such  a  home  an'  expect  me  to  never  have  a  wish 
outside  of  it.  If  I  told  you  I  wanted  less  com 
fort  an'  more  love,  you'd  pat  me  on  the  back  an' 
say  you  never  saw  my  beat,  —  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  pleasin'  me.  But  oh !  "  she  cried  out 
passionately,  "/  love  you  !  I'd  go  mad  tryin'  to 
208 


A    PASSION-FLOWER    OF    THE    WEST 

make  your  love  match  mine.  My  love  is  one 
great  prayer  to  God,  day  an'  night."  Her  voice 
quivered  and  broke.  She  threw  her  head  down 
on  her  knees  and  burst  into  wild  sobbing. 

When  her  passion  had  spent  itself,  she  lifted 
her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  sweet,  but  very 
sorrowful,  eyes.  "  Oh,  my  dearest,"  she  said,  "  we 
should  be  so  wretched  together.  Go  an'  marry 
some  girl  that'll  be  satisfied  with  a  home  an'  the 
kind  of  love  that  most  men  have  to  give ;  an'  be 
glad  always  that  I  had  strength  to  prove  my 
great  love  for  you  by  not  marryin'  you.  You 
will  be  happy,  an'  I"  -  she  hesitated.  "You 
mustn't  pity  me.  My  love  is  a  fire  that'll  keep 
me  warm.  An*  then  I  have  God,"  she  uttered, 
very  softly.  "I'm  not  religious  an'  I'm  not 
churchy,  you  know ;  but  I  have  God  more  than 
most  people.  I  see  Him  in  every  sunset  an'  in 
every  tree  an'  every  flower.  It  is  the  God  in 
my  love  that  makes  it  so  beautiful." 

Mr.  McGoon  arose  slowly,  as  if  in  a  state  of 
stupefaction.  He  pulled  his  long  figure  up  and 
lifted  his  chin  high. 

"Well,  all  is,"  he  said,  distinctly,  "I  think 
yuh're  'n  idjit,  or  else  yuh've  been  a-readin' 
yellow-back  novels.  If  yuh  think  I'll  keep  on 
a-coaxin'  yuh  to  marry  me,  yuh'll  git  fooled,  — 
that's  all." 

He  turned  his  broad  back  on  her  and  strode 

209 


A    PASSION-FLO W-ER    OF    THE    WEST 

away,  without  another  word,  along  the  path  to 
the  hop-field. 

Drusilla  looked  after  him  with  sorrowful  eyes. 
She  did  not  know  that  it  was  the  ideal,  not  the 
man,  that  she  loved  with  such  exalted  passion. 
There  was  no  one  to  tell  her ;  and  she  had  no 
books.  Her  wisdom  was  as  the  fragrance  of  a 
flower. 

"He'll  marry  somebody  else,"  she  said,  her 
eyes  still  dwelling  upon  him,  "  an'  have  a  fine 
farm  an'  horses  an'  cattle.  He  may  be  a  sena 
tor  an'  take  his  wife  to  Olympia  in  the  winter. 
He'll  give  her  at  least  three  dresses  a  year,  an' 
a  top-buggy,  —  that  always  needs  oilin',  —  an'  a 
set  of  hair-cloth  furniture.  He  may  even  get  her 
an  org'n  with  a  high  back  an'  brackets ;  but 
he'll  never,  never,  never  let  her  stay  out  till 
midnight  to  hear  the  wind  in  the  trees  or  the 
tide  comin'  up  the  beach.  .  .  .  And  I  —  " 

Her  eyes  turned  upward  to  the  red  lamps  of 
heaven. 


210 


THE   ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 


THE   ARNSPIKER   CHICKENS 

"Well,  if  there  ain't  them  Arnspiker  chick 
ens  in  the  strawberry  patch  ag  in  !  Q}\-ok  !  that's 
the  fifth  time  this  mornin',  an'  I've  druv  'em  out 
with  stove-wood  every  time.  It  don't  do  a  bit 
o'  good.  They  just  git  into  a  nice  hill  an'  go 
to  wallerin'  an'  scratchin'  an'  cluckin' !  The 
cluckin'  makes  me  almost  as  aggravated  as  the 
scratchin'  —  it  sounds  just  as  if  they  was  dariri 
me,  because  they  know  I  durs'n't  kill  'em.  Oh, 
just  look  at  'em  !  A-flound'rin'  right  in  the 
middle  of  that  nicest  hill !  It's  enough  to  dis 
tract  a  saint !  Father  !  Father  !  For  pity's  sake 
—  can't  you  go  an'  scare  'em  out  with  stove- 
wood  ? " 

Mr.  Webster  got  up  stiffly  from  the  dinner- 
table.  He  was  a  patient-faced  old  gentleman 
with  blue,  dreamy  eyes.  He  had  a  stoop  in  his 
shoulders — from  overmuch  hoeing  in  great  po 
tato  fields,  he  always  explained  with  his  gentle 
smile ;  but  some  of  his  neighbors  were  wont  to 
declare  among  themselves  that  "  livin'  all  them 
years  with  Mis'  Webster's  tongue  was  enough 
to  give  him  a  stoop  in  his  shoulders  without  ever 
tetchin'  a  hoe." 

213 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

"Why,  mother,"  he  said,  going  hesitatingly  to 
the  kitchen  door,  "I  don't  like  to  throw  stove- 
wood  at  'em.  I  might  hurt  'em." 

"You  might  hurt  'em,  aigh  ?  Well,  I  want 
that  you  should  hurt  'em.  I  want  that  you 
should  kill  'em  if  they  don't  stay  out  o'  that 
strawberry  patch  !  What  was  the  sense  in  our 
movin'  into  town  to  spend  the  rest  o'  our  days 
if  we're  to  have  the  life  clucked  an'  scratched  out 
o'  us  by  our  neighbor's  chickens  ?  You  ain't 
got  any  answer  to  that,  have  you  ?  Aigh  ? " 

Evidently  Mr.  Webster  had  not.  He  took  two 
or  three  sticks  of  wood  from  the  well-filled  box, 
and  started  again,  in  a  half-hearted  way,  for  the 
door. 

"  Oh,  my  land  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Webster,  con 
temptuously.  She  ran  after  him  and  snatched 
the  wood  from  him.  "Why  don't  you  wait  a 
coon's  age  ?  Why  don't  you  wait  till  they  scratch 
the  strawberries  up  by  the  roots  f  I  never  see  ! 
I  notice  you  like  to  eat  the  berries  as  well  as 
anybody,  but  you  ain't  willin'  to  turn  your  hand 
over  to  take  care  of  'em." 

She  rushed  down  the  steps  and  out  into  the 
yard,  throwing  the  sticks  of  wood  with  fierce 
strength. 

Mr.  Webster  watched  her  with  anxiety.     "  Oh, 
mother,    look    out  ! "    he    called    deprecatingly. 
"You  'most  hit  that  little  pullet." 
214 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

"I  want  to  hit  that  little  pullet !" 

The  chickens  flew,  cackling,  over  the  low  fence 
and  down  the  hill. 

Mrs.  Webster  stood  watching  them  in  grim 
satisfaction.  When  they  had  disappeared  among 
the  ferns  she  came  back  slowly.  Her  face  was 
flushed  with  triumph.  She  was  breathing  hard. 
"I'll  pullet  'em!"  she  said. 

"  You  hadn't  ought  to  throw  at  'em,  mother." 
Mr.  Webster  spoke  gently.  "  You  might  hurt 
one  of  'em.  There's  Mis'  Arnspiker  a-standin' 
in  the  door,  a-watchin'  you,  too." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  she  saw  me.  Where's  my 
sunbunnit  at?  I'm  goin'  right  down  to  give  her 
a  talkin'  to.  I've  tell  her  three  times  now  that 
her  chickens  is  the  ruination  of  my  strawberries. 
All  she  ever  says  is,  well,  she's  offul  sorry,  an' 
she  thinks  it's  that  old  speckled  hen's  fault,  an' 
she'll  drive  'em  down  towards  Burmeister's  !  I 
wonder  if  she  thinks  the  Burmeister's  want  'em 
any  worse  'n  I  do  !  She's  got  to  git  red  of  them 
chickens,  an*  that's  all  there  is  about  it.  There's 
a  law  ag'in  havin'  'em  in  town  an'  I  ain't  a-goin' 
to  stand  it  another  day.  I'll  let  her  know  I  ain't 
a  Corbett  an'  a  Fitzsimmons  to  stand  up  an'  be 
knocked  down  a  dozen  times  !  " 

"  Now,  mother,  if  you  go  down  there,  you'll  be 
sorry  —  " 

"  You  'tend  to  your  own  effairs,  father,  will 

2I5 


THE    ARNSPIKER   CHICKENS 

you  ?  I  won't  be  set  upon !  There  can't  any 
body  set  upon  me  —  let  alone  that  Mis'  Arn- 
spiker ! " 

Mr.  Webster  went  into  the  kitchen  and  sat 
down.  "  There's  no  use  in  argy'n'  with  Mari'," 
he  said,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Webster  had  crossed  the  plains 
in  the  sixties  and  settled  on  a  ranch  in  what  was 
then  the  territory  of  Washington.  Here  they 
lived  a  life  of  toil  and  privation  —  a  hard,  narrow, 
joyless  life  —  until  the  "boom"  came  along  in 
1888  and  made  them  wealthy. 

Then  they  moved  "  to  town  "  and  built  a  com 
fortable  home  and  settled  down  to  the  difficult 
occupation  of  finding  content  and  peace. 

Unfortunately  they  built  upon  a  hill.  There 
is  something  about  a  hill  that  attracts  the  large 
end  of  a  spy-glass  as  a  red  rag  attracts  a  bull. 
Soon  after  Mrs.  Webster  had  laboriously  and 
patiently  climbed  her  hill  and  founded  her  home 
upon  a  beautiful  height,  the  iron  came  into  her 
soul  and  rusted  there. 

It  was  bad  enough,  she  thought,  in  all  mercy, 
to  learn  that  her  neighbors  down  below  gossiped 
about  her  leaving  her  wash  a-switching  out  on 
the  line,  all  wet  and  dripping  with  rain,  three 
days  an'  nights  at  a  time ;  and  about  her  using 
table-cloths  with  red  borders  when  she  could 
easy  afford  white  ones  ;  and  about  the  unmended 
216 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

holes  in  the  knees  of  poor  Mr.  Webster's  under 
garments  ;  and  about  their  only  using  three 
towels  an'  two  napkins  a  week  —  but  for  them 
to  figure  out  that  she  and  her  husband  did  not 
live  harmoniously  together,  solely  because  four 
sheets  and  four  pillow-slips  were  hung  on  the  line 
every  wash-day,  turned  her  soul  sick  within  her. 

At  first  she  bore  it  meekly.  But  one  morning 
about  ten  o'clock  while  she  was  stooping  over 
the  colored  clothes  in  the  wash-tub,  who  should 
walk  into  the  kitchen  but  Mrs.  Peters  in  her 
afternoon  dress  and  white  apron.  There  was  a 
frill  of  lace  at  her  throat,  and  she  carried  her 
"  crochet." 

At  sight  of  Mrs.  Webster  she  stood  still  and 
threw  up  her  hands. 

"  Have  you  got  a  preparation  ?" 

"Have  I  got  a  —  w/iatf"  said  Mrs.  Webster, 
through  the  steam. 

"  Have  you  got  a  preparation  ?  " 

"  A  — preparation  ?  " 

"  Yaas.  A  preparation.  W'y,  a  rule.  Have 
you  got  a  rule  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  W'y,  a  rule  to  make  a  washing  preparation 
by.  I'll  lend  you  mine.  I  had  my  wash  all  out 
on  the  line,  an'  my  kitching  an'  porches  an'  steps 
an'  all  scrubbed  by  nine  o'clock.  I  come  to 
spend  the  day  —  an'  here  you  ain't  near  through." 
217 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

Mrs.  Webster  cleared  her  throat.  "  I've  only 
got  one  rule,"  she  said,  "an'  that  is  to  do  my 
visitin'  on  some  day  besides  wash-day ;  an'  I 
ain't  got  any  preparation  —  for  visitors  on  wash 
day." 

And  she  bent  into  the  steam  again  and  was  lost 
to  view.  But  now,  of  course,  she  had  an  enemy. 

A  few  days  later  Mrs.  Gunn  came  in  to  "  set 
a  spell."  "  I  come  to  tell  you  about  his  brother- 
in-law's  cousin,  his  wife,"  she  said.  "She's 
got  creepin'  paralysis  in  her  arm.  Creep  — 
my !  It'll  more  likely  run.  He  was  over  to 
his  brother's  this  morning  and  his  brother  says 
his  cousin  is  all  worked  up.  He  wants  I  should 
go  and  make  a  visit  on  her  to-morrow.  I  ain't 
suffering  to  —  she's  always  been  thinking  her 
self  so  exalted,  and  so  anumated  over  it.  May 
be  this'll  take  her  down  a  peg.  She  won't  go 
a-silking  by  quite  so  big —  with  creepin'  paralysis 
in  her  arm  !  He  says  he's  see  the  grocery 
wagon  go  there  as  high  as  three  times  a  day. 
Has  she  ever  made  a  call  on  you  ? " 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Webster,  politely. 

"  Well,  it  wouldn't  of  hurt  her.  I  guess  you 
don't  feel  bad.  She's  perfectly  frivulous.  I 
can't  abide  her,  but  he  says,  well,  never  mind  — 
she's  in  the  fambly.  I  don't  like  the  way  her 
forehead  protrudes  back,  anyhow.  W'y,  there 
goes  Mis'  Brun  down  town  with  a  white  petti- 
218 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

coat  on  in  all  this  rain  !  Did  you  ever  hear  tell  ? 
Oh,  that  makes  me  think !  Mis'  Brun  told  me 
she  see  a  new  cupboard  a-coming  up  the  alley, 
an'  she  thought  it  must  be  a-coming  here.  May 
I  ask  if  it  was  Mis'  Fiske's  ?  She's  selling  out, 
an'  we  know  where  everything  went  to  but  the 
cupboard." 

All  these  things  and  heavier  Mrs.  Webster 
endured ;  but  they  gradually  embittered  her. 
When  Mrs.  Arnspiker  turned  her  hens  out  and 
they  came  strutting  and  clucking  up  the  hill  to 
her  strawberry  patch,  her  patience  went  out  the 
window.  The  worm  turned ;  and  being  of  the 
long-suffering  sex,  it  turned  with  unexpected 
vigor. 

Mrs.  Webster  went  down  the  narrow  path 
among  the  ferns.  She  held  her  skirts  up  high 
on  both  sides. 

The  Arnspiker  home  was  a  small,  unpainted 
shack.  It  had  a  dingy,  spiritless  look.  Mrs. 
Arnspiker  was  a  widow  and  she  was  very  poor. 
She  had  no  children  and  few  friends.  She  took 
in  washing,  and  she  sold  eggs. 

She  was  standing  on  the  back  porch  when 
Mrs.  Webster  opened  the  gate.  She  was  a 
small,  pale  woman.  Her  face  had  many  deep 
lines  of  care.  There  was  a  kind  of  entreaty  in 
her  faded  eyes  as  she  greeted  her  visitor.  It 
did  not  move  Mrs.  Webster. 
219 


THE   ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

"  How-d'you-do,  Mis'  Arnspiker  ?  "  she  said, 
hostilely. 

"  How-r-you,  Mis'  Webster?"  Mrs.  Arn- 
spiker's  heart  was  beating  fast  and  hard. 
"Won't  you  step  in  an'  set  down  a  spell  ?  Or  'd 
you  ruther  set  down  here  'n  the  sun?  Here's 
a  chair  —  excuse  me!  It  ain't  overly  clean." 
She  wiped  it  carefully  with  the  wrong  side  of 
her  apron.  "  You're  looking  reel  well,  Mis'  Web 
ster,"  she  went  on,  diplomatically.  It  is  better 
to  be  born  diplomatic  than  rich.  "  I  never  see 
you  looking  better.  My  !  the  color  'n  that  calico 
is  becoming  to  you.  Where  'd  you  git  it  at  ?  " 

"  Cam'ellses."     Mrs.  Webster  spoke  icily. 

"Go  on!  Well,  you  don't  say!  I  didn't 
suppose  they  had  anything  so  pretty  in  their 
store.  It's  offul  becoming.  That  kind  o'  buff 
color  alwus  is  becoming  to  a  nice,  clear  complex 
ion.  There  ain't  many  complected  just  like  you, 
Mis'  Webster,  an'  so  there  ain't  many  that  can 
wear  buff." 

There  was  a  silence.  Mrs.  Webster  sat  look 
ing  fixedly  at  the  hard,  cleanly  swept  dooryard. 
There  was  not  a  blade  of  grass  in  it.  It  had  a 
look  of  desolation  —  of  utter  abandonment  to  de 
spair.  She  was  thinking  that  it  was  not  so  easy  to 
begin  about  the  chickens  as  she  had  imagined  it 
would  be.  After  all,  Mis'  Arnspiker  did  have 
some  taste  about  her.  It  had  been  only  two 
220 


THE   ARNSP1KER   CHICKENS 

days  since  that,  uppish  Mis'  Lawrence  had  gig 
gled  right  in  her  face  and  cried  out  —  "  W'y,  Mis' 
Webster,  the  idy  !  you  a-wearing  buff!  "  Giddy, 
fool  thing ! 

Then  she  pulled  herself  together,  and  said 
sternly —  "  Mis'  Arnspiker,  I  come  down  — " 

"  I  wonder  now,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Arnspiker, 
with  a  flustered  air,  "if  you'd  just  as  live  tell 
how  much  it  were  a  yard." 

"  How  much  what  were  a  yard  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  buff  calico  you're  a-wearing." 

Mrs.  Webster  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  hard 
at  her  neighbor.  Her  thin  lips  unclosed.  She 
spoke  slowly  and  firmly.  She  was  not  to  be 
propitiated.  "  It  were  seven  cents.  Mis'  Arn 
spiker,  I  come  down  —  " 

"  I  wonder  'f  you'd  mind  my  having  one  like 
it,  seein's  we're  neighbors.  It  wouldn't  be 
becoming  to  me,  though."  Mrs.  Arnspiker 
sighed.  "There  ain't  a  woman  in  town  it  'u'd 
become  as  it  does  you.  There  ain.'t  a  one." 

There  was  another  silence.  A  faint,  uncon 
trollable  blush  of  pleasure  had  arisen  to  Mrs. 
Webster's  thin  cheek.  She  sat  looking  up  at 
her  big,  green  house  on  the  hill.  Her  heart 
stirred  pleasantly.  She  had  never  been  told 
before  that  she  had  a  clear  complexion.  In 
deed,  had  Mrs.  Arnspiker  been  a  Catholic,  she 
would  have  fasted  a  full  week,  in  the  hope  of 
221 


THE   ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

absolution  for  suggesting  it  now ;  being  a  Prot 
estant,  she  meant  to  put  a  good  sum  in  the  mis 
sionary-box  to  ease  her  conscience. 

"  You  can  have  a  dress  like  it,  if  you  want," 
said  Mrs.  Webster. 

"You're  offul  clever.  I  don't  believe  I  can 
wear  it,  though  ;  but  you're  offul  clever.  Who 
is  that  a-going  along  the  path  ? "  She  stretched 
out  her  thin  neck  like  a  chicken  and  peered  out 
from  under  lowered  lids.  "  Oh,  it's  Mis'  Ballot ! 
I  feel  condemned.  I  ain't  been  to  see  her  since 
her  baby  died.  She  took  it  so  hard,  too.  She's 
a-going  out  to  the  cemetry  now  with  a  callo 
lily.  Don't  she  look  mournful  all  in  black !  I 
do  feel  condemned." 

There  was  quite  a  softened  expression  on  Mrs. 
Webster's  face  and  all  might  have  been  well ; 
but  at  that  critical  moment  three  hens,  having 
been  safely  delivered  of  their  daily  contributions 
to  Mrs.  Arnspiker's  store,  flew  from  their  nests 
as  one  hen  and,  floundering  clumsily  over  the 
fence,  made  straight  for  Mrs.  Webster's  straw 
berry  patch  on  a  run,  cackling  triumphantly,  as 
much  as  to  say  —  "  Do  we  not  deserve  a  berry  ? " 

Mrs.  Webster's  face  grew  black.  "  Mis'  Arn- 
spiker,"  she  said,  sternly ;  and  Mrs.  Arnspiker 
drew  a  long  breath  and  gave  up.  "Your 
chickens  have  been  in  my  strawberry  patch 
ag'in,  an'  been  the  ruination  of  it." 
222 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

"  Oh,  my ! "  said  Mrs.  Arnspiker,  collapsing 
weakly.  Mrs.  Webster  regarded  her  steadfastly 
and  pitilessly.  "  I'm  offul  sorry." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,  too,  Mis'  Arnspiker.  Pm 
sorry  just  about  ten  dollars'  worth.  Bein'  sorry 
don't  seem  to  keep  them  chickens  —  " 

"It's  that  old  speckled  hen's  fault!"  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Arnspiker,  brightening  as  if  with 
a  sudden  inspiration.  "She  coaxes  the  other 
'ns  up  there.  I'll  have  to  drive  'em  down 
towards  —  " 

"  Burmeister's,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Webster, 
dryly.  "  You've  been  a-doing  that  for  a  month 
past."  She  got  up  slowly.  "  I  reckon  you'll 
have  to  git  red  o'  them  hens,  Mis'  Arnspiker. 
I've  had  just  about  all  of  'em  I  want.  I  ain't  a 
Corbett  or  a  Fitzsimmons  —  to  stand  up  an'  be 
knocked  down  a  dozen  times  !  I  can't  efford  to 
set  out  berries  for  hens.  How'd  you  like  to 
have  a  nice  place  like  our  'n,  an'  then  go  an'  have 
everything  ruined  up  by  somebody's  hens?" 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Arnspiker,  with 
a  sigh,  "if  I  had  a  nice  place  like  your'n,  I'd  be 
so  happy  I  wouldn't  worry  over  little  things 
like  strawberries." 

She  did  not  mean  to  be  impertinent.  It  did 
not  occur  to  her  that  she  was.  She  simply  gave 
utterance  to  the  thought  as  it  came  to  her. 

Mrs.  Webster's  face  grew  scarlet.  She  had 
223 


THE    ARNSPIKER   CHICKENS 

been  yearning  for  something  at  which  she  might 
take  offence.  It  is  not  possible  to  give  a  piece 
of  one's  mind  to  a  meek  person.  Now,  this 
sounded  like  a  challenge. 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't,  aigh  ?  Well,  I'll  give 
you  to  know  I've  slaved  for  all  I  got,  Mis' 
Arnspiker ! " 

"  Well,  so  've  I,"  said  Mrs.  Arnspiker,  with  a 
simplicity  that  held  unconscious  pathos.  "But, 
someways,  Mis'  Webster,  some  people  slave  an' 
git  rich,  an'  other  'ns  slave  an'  git  poor." 

This  was  a  truth  that  had  never  presented 
itself  to  Mrs.  Webster.  For  a  full  minute  she 
was  silent.  Then  she  drew  in  her  thin  lips. 
"Well,  this  ain't  got  anything  to  do  with  the 
chickens,"  she  said.  "  There's  a  law  ag'in  'em, 
an'  I  reckon  you'll  have  to  either  git  red  of  'em 
or  keep  'em  shet  up." 

"  They  won't  lay  if  I  keep  'em  shet  up,"  said 
Mrs.  Arnspiker,  helplessly.  "  I  can't  keep  'em 
shet  up.  I  got  to  have  my  eggs." 

"  Well,  an'  I  got  to  have  my  strawberries.  I 
got  the  law.  You  can't  git  around  that,  can 
you  ?  It  ain't  many  as  'u'd  come  an'  argy  with 
you  's  I've  done." 

There   was   a   deep   silence.     A   brown   hen 

came   strutting   about   Mrs.    Arnspiker's    feet. 

She  had  a  pert  and  flaunting  air  that  betrayed 

her  habit  of  imposing  upon  that  lady's  affection- 

224 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

ate  regard  for  her.  Mrs.  Arnspiker  looked  at 
her.  Her  eyes  filled  suddenly  with  tears.  "  I 
don't  believe  I  could  part  with  that  little  brown 
hen,"  she  said,  brokenly. 

"  She's  the  wo'st  of  the  hull  of  'em  !  "  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Webster,  fiercely.  "I've  said  all 
I'm  a-going  to.  You  can  do  just  as  you  want, 
Mis'  Arnspiker.  But  if  them  hens  git  into  my 
strawberry  patch  ag'in  an'  ruminate  around  them 
vines,— you'll  have  to  stand  the  damage.  I 
got  the  law  !  " 

She  turned  abruptly  and  went  out  of  the 
yard.  She  held  one  shoulder  higher  than  the 
other,  and  walked  with  long,  firm  strides,  swing 
ing  her  arms. 


'It  was  a  week  later  that  Mrs.  Worstel  came 
to  spend  the  afternoon  with  Mrs.  Webster. 
She  brought  a  towel  which  she  was  hemstitch 
ing.  The  two  ladies  sat  on  the  back  porch, 
because  it  was  shaded  by  hop-vines.  The  cool, 
salt  breeze  from  off  Puget  Sound  swept  through, 
rustling  the  harsh  hop-leaves  and  swinging  the 
scarlet  clusters  of  bloom  on  the  wild  honey 
suckle  vine  over  the  window. 

It  was  June.     The  "yard"  was  in  its  fairest 
beauty.     The  rose-bushes  were  bending  beneath 

225 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

their  riot  of  bloom.  One  bed  was  a  long  flame 
of  ruddy  gold  where  the  California  poppies 
opened  their  hearts.  Another  was  bordered 
with  purple  and  yellow  pansies.  Some  tardy 
gladioli  were  thrusting  their  pale  green  swords 
up  through  the  rich  earth.  Velvet  wallflowers 
still  sweetened  the  air.  Bees  waded  through 
their  pollen,  and  lavender  butterflies  drifted 
down  on  spread  wings  to  find  them.  Banks 
of  "  summer  snow "  still  made  the  terraces 
white. 

"My-O,  my  land!"  said  Mrs.  Worstel,  drop 
ping  her  work  in  her  lap.  "How  sweet  it  is!  " 

"  It  is  so,"  said  Mrs.  Webster,  pulling  herself 
up  with  pride.  "  There  ain't  many  yards  furder 
along  than  mine,  if  I  do  say  it.  I  never  see 
such  flowers  in  Peoria-'llinois." 

"  Oh,  did  you  come  from  Peoria-'llinois  ? 
W'y,  I'm  from  Quincy-'llinois,  myself." 

"I  want  to  know." 

"Yaas.  I  stopped  in  at  Mis'  Arnspiker's  as 
I  come  along.  She's  feelin'  turrable  bad." 

Mrs.  Webster  looked  up  coldly.  "  What  she 
feeling  bad  about  ?  " 

"W'y,  she's  had  to  sell  all  her  chickens. 
They  was  botherin'  some  o'  her  neighbors  — 
that  Mis'  Burmeister,  I  guess  !  She  never  does 
have  a  speck  o'  mercy  on  poor  people !  Mis' 
Arnspiker  didn't  say  it  was  her,  but  I  don't 
226 


THE   ARNSPIKER   CHICKENS 

b'lieve  anybody  else  Vd  be  so  all-fired  mean. 
Go  an'  complain  of  a  poor  widow's  layin' 
hens!" 

There  was  a  scarlet  spot  on  each  of  Mrs. 
Webster's  high  cheek-bones.  She  was  sewing 
and  she  did  not  lift  her  eyes.  When  the  silence 
became  oppressive,  she  said,  grimly  —  "  Is  Mis' 
Arnspiker  so  offul  poor  ?  " 

"  My,  yaas.  That's  all  she's  had  to  make  a 
livin'  off  of  —  them  hens  o'  her'n.  I  don't  see 
what  she'll  do.  She  does  take  in  a  little  wash, 
but  she  ain't  able  to  take  in  enough  to  keep  a 
flea  alive  —  little,  sickly  thing!  She's  alwus 
havin'  a  felon.  I've  see  her  up  an'  a-washin' 
at  four  o'clock  in  the  mornin'  - 

"  Four  o'clock  in  the  morning  !  "  Mrs.  Web 
ster  would  have  grasped  at  any  straw  to  turn 
the  conversation.  "  You  !  For  mercy's  sake  ! 
D'  you  git  up  so  early  ? " 

"  No,  but  I  was  awake.  I  see  her  out  the 
window.  Four  o'clock's  my  coughin'-time.  I 
feel  offul  sorry  for  her.  The  way  she  did  set 
store  by  them  chickens !  I've  see  her  call  'em 
up,  one  at  a  time,  in  her  lap  to  eat  out  o'  her 
hand.  An'  that  little  brown  hen  —  she  just 
loved  her !  The  tears  fairly  run  down  her 
cheeks  when  she  tell  me  about  sellin'  'em." 

"  Hunh  !  "  said  Mrs.  Webster,  dryly. 

"  I  should  think  that  Mis'  Burmeister  Vd  be 
227 


THE    ARNSPIKER   CHICKENS 

ashamed  o'  herself,"  continued  Mrs.  Worstel. 
"  A  body  with  a  fine  house  an'  comf  table  off ! 
Them  that  don't  have  any  mercy  on  the  poor 
needn't  to  expect  none." 

"  Hunh  !  "  said  Mrs.  Webster.  After  a  little 
she  added,  weakly — "Well,  I  guess  that  she 
didn't  want  her  neighbor's  chickens  a-rumi- 
nating  in  her  strawberry  patch.  I  guess  she 
didn't  want  that  her  berries  should  be  all  et 
up." 

"  Oh,  my  !  She'd  best  be  buyin'  her  ber 
ries  from  poor  people's  raisin',  instid  o'  raisin' 
her  own  here  in  town,  just  to  save  a  few 
cents  —  " 

She  stopped  abruptly.  A  deep  color  spread 
over  her  face.  Her  wandering  eyes  had  fallen 
upon  Mrs.  Webster's  strawberry  patch  down  in 
the  corner  of  the  yard. 

"Pfew!"  she  said,  moving  her  chair  a  little. 
"How  warm  it's  a-gittin' !  .  .  .  Well,  it's 
mighty  hard  to  be  a  widow  an*  sickly  at  that,  an' 
then  have  your  only  means  o'  support  took  away 
from  you  by  a  complainin'  neighbor." 

Mrs.  Webster  cleared  her  throat.  Her  face 
took  on  a  hard  look. 

"Well,"  she  said,  slowly,  "I  don't  just  agree 

with  you,  Mis'  Worstel.     It's  ag'in  the  law  to 

keep  chickens  in  town,  unless  you  keep  'em  shet 

up.     I  don't  see  's  Mis'  Arnspiker  has  got  any 

228 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

call  to  go  around  a-talking  about  her  neighbors 
because  she  had  to  git  red  o'  her'n." 

"  Mercy  !  She  wa'n't  complainin',  Mis'  Web 
ster.  She  never  said  a  word  —  not  a  single, 
breathin'  word — ag'in  anybody.  She  never  even 
told  me  who  it  were  that  made  a  fuss.  That's 
what  made  me  feel  so  —  the  meek  way  she  took 
it  in.  She  said  she  knew  it  were  ag'in  the  law, 
an'  it  wa'n't  right  for  her  to  be  a  bother  an'  a 
aggravation  to  her  neighbors,  anyhow  —  but  that 
didn't  make  her  feel  it  any  the  lesser  to  give  'em 
up.  Said  she  knew  most  people  'u'd  laff  at  the 
idy  o'  her  a-feelin'  so  about  a  passel  o'  hens, 
but  that  most  people  wa'n't  all  alone  in  the  world, 
an'  poor  as  Job's  turkey  at  that,  an'  so  they 
didn't  git  their  affections  set  on  dumb  animals 
like  her  'n  had  got.  She  cried  as  if  her  heart 
was  broke.  The  tears  just  run  down  her  cheeks. 
She  kep'  sayin'  she  didn't  see  how  she  could  git 
along  'ithout  her  chickens,  'specially  that  little 
brown  hen.  She  ust  to  follow  Mis'  Arnspiker 
all  over.  ...  I  must  go.  How  the  afternoon 
has  went.  I've  enjoyed  myself,  I  declare.  Oh, 
has  Mis'  Riley's  son  got  an  ear?" 

"  Has  he  got  a  —  what  ?  " 

"An  ear  —  has  he  got  an  ear?" 

"An  ear!" 

"  Yes,  an  ear.  Has  he  got  an  ear  —  for 
music  ? " 

229 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Webster,  solemnly.  "I  do' 
know." 

"Well,  I  see  his  mother's  got  a  teacher  there 
givin'  him  lessons  on  his  catarrh.  I  just  won 
dered  if  he  had  an  ear.  Come  over  an'  set  the 
afternoon  with  your  work.  My,  how  sweet 
that  mount'n  ba'm  smells  ! " 

Mrs.  Webster  walked  with  her  guest  around 
the  house.  She  replied  in  an  absent-minded 
way  to  Mrs.  Worstel's  extravagant  praises  of  her 
bleeding-hearts  and  bachelor's-buttons  and  mourn 
ing-widows.  She  was  lost  in  thought. 

At  the  gate  Mrs.  Worstel  paused.  "Well," 
she  said,  with  a  long  breath,  "seems  to  me 
you've  got  everything  heart  could  ask  for." 

"  Who'd  she  sell  'em  to  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Webster,  suddenly. 

"  Who  ?  What  ?  Oh,  Mis'  Arnspiker  ?  Why, 
she  sell  'em  to  Mr.  Jones,  right  down  in  the 
next  block.  He's  got  a  reg'lar  lot  for  keepin' 
'em  in.  Well,  good  day." 

When  her  guest  was  out  of  sight,  Mrs. 
Webster  put  on  her  sunbonnet,  and  went  out 
the  gate.  She  gave  a  long  look  down  at  Mrs. 
Arnspiker's  little  shabby  house,  with  its  hard, 
white  yard  and  the  sun  blazing  into  its  un 
shaded  windows. 

Then  she  turned  down  the  street  in  the  oppo 
site  direction. 

230 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

At  dusk  that  evening  Mrs.  Webster  walked 
into  Mrs.  Arnspiker's  back  yard.  She  carried 
a  box  with  slats  across  the  top.  Between  these 
slats  arose  the  brown  head  of  a  hen  with  two 
very  astonished  and  anxious  eyes. 

Mrs.  Arnspiker  sat  alone  on  the  porch,  rock 
ing  slowly  in  a  creaking  chair.  "Why,  Mis' 
Webster  !  "  she  exclaimed.  She  stood  up.  Mrs. 
Webster  set  the  box  down  at  her  feet. 

"  Here's  your  brown  hen,"  she  announced, 
without  a  change  of  countenance.  "I've 
bought  all  your  chickens  back.  The  man'll 
bring  the  rest  of  'em  to-morrow.  I  had  to  pay 
once  ag'in  what  you  got  for  'em,  but  I'd  of  paid 
three  times  ag'in  but  what  I'd  of  had  Jem  !  " 

"  Oh  —  Mis'  —  Webster  —  " 

"  Well,  now,  don't  go  to  crying  over  a  hen  ! 
You  let  your  chickens  run.  We'll  put  some 
wire-netting  atop  o'  our  fence  an'  keep  'em 
out." 

She  half  turned  to  go,  and  then  stopped. 
"I'm  sorry  I  acted  up  so  over  them  chickens," 
she  said,  speaking  very  fast.  "  But  the  neigh 
bors  have  just  made  a  reg'lar  Jezebel  out  o'  me 
—  a-prying  an'  a-spying." 

She  walked  out  of  the  yard  before  Mrs. 
Arnspiker  could  reply.  Mr.  Webster  met  her 
at  the  door.  "W'y,  Mari',"  he  said,  mildly, 
"where  you  been?" 

231 


THE    ARNSPIKER    CHICKENS 

"Now,  don't  meddle,"  she  retorted,  sharply; 
but  at  once  repented,  and  added  in  a  concilia 
tory  tone  —  "Mis'  Worstel  thinks  Mis'  Riley's 
little  boy  has  got  an  ear.  He's  a-taking  lessons 
on  the  catarrh." 


232 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  CAME  TO 

ABRAHAM 


THE    LIGHT    THAT    CAME    TO 
ABRAHAM 

"Abraham!" 

"Yes,  mother." 

"Abraham!" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"Oh,  here  you  are.  W'y  —  how  long  should 
you  say  she's  been  staying  here  ? " 

Abraham  lifted  himself  in  his  wheel-chair. 
He  was  thirty  years  old,  but  he  was  a  cripple. 
He  would  never  be  other  than  a  boy  to  his 
mother.  A  red  flush  went  quickly  across  his 
pale  face. 

"  She  came  on  the  fifteenth  of  April,  mother. 
She  got  here  just  at  six  o'clock.  I  remember 
how  the  sunset  looked  on  her  hair." 

"What  silliness!  Who  cares  how  sunset 
looks  on  hair  ?  You're  just  like  a  girl !  "  Abra 
ham  winced.  "  Well,  this  is  the  first  of  Septem 
ber.  I  want  you  should  count  up  how  much 
she  owes  us  at  thirty  dollar  a  month.  She 
wanted  to  pay  by  the  month,  but  I  didn't  want 
the  money  layin'  around  the  house  all  summer. 
Now,  I'll  take  an'  use  it  to  buy  cattle.  How 
much  is  it,  you  say  ?  " 

235 


THE    LIGHT    THAT    CAME    TO    ABRAHAM 

"  A  hundred  and  thirty-five  dollars" 

Mrs.  Buck  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  "How 
board  does  amount  up.  Maybe  she'll  offer  to 
pay  interest.  She  can  if  she's  suffering  to. 
How's  your  back  feel  ?  " 

"It's  better." 

"Better?  Oh,  you  always  say  you're  better. 
I  wish  you'd  get  in  an'  complain  sometimes, 
like  other  people.  It  wouldn't  make  a  body  feel 
so !  It  makes  a  body  feel  awful  to  see  you  just 
set  around  an'  suffer,  an'  keep  saying  you're 
better.  I  notice  /  complain  if  I  don't  get  more 
'n  a  wart  on  my  thumb  !  " 

Abraham  smiled. 

"  She's  going  to-morrow,"  said  his  mother, 
suddenly. 

"  She  —  what  ?  "  Abraham  turned  white.  His 
eyes  flashed  a  startled,  terrified  look  at  his 
mother. 

'"She's  going  to-morrow.  Her  husband  tele- 
grafted  for  her ;  she  just  got  it.  A  hundred 
an'  thirty-five  dollar,  did  you  say  ?  My  land ! 
have  you  got  a  chill  ?  You're  as  white  as  a 
sheet." 

"I'm  all  right,"  said  Abraham  ;  but  he  wheeled 
his  chair  around,  so  his  mother  could  not  see  his 
face. 

Mrs.  Buck  arose  with  her  usual  sigh.     There 
are  women  who  never  leave  a  chair  without  a 
236 


THE    LIGHT   THAT    CAME    TO    ABRAHAM 

sigh.  "Well,  that  bread  must  be  up,  ready  for 
the  oven.  Anything  you  want,  Abraham  ?  " 

"No,  mother." 

She  went  out  slowly.  "A  hundred  an'  thirty- 
five  dollar,"  she  said,  solemnly,  as  she  closed  the 
door.  "  It'll  buy  three  Jersey  heifers." 

When  she  had  put  the  great  loaves  of  bread 
into  the  oven,  she  went  out  on  the  porch  and 
sat  down  in  a  low  wooden  rocker.  "  I  ain't  so 
awful  sorry  she's  going.  It's  some  work  to 
keep  a  city  boarder.  It  makes  a  body  hump 
hisself.  My  land !  how  Abraham'll  miss  her 
an'  that  banjo-playing  of  her  'n.  I  never  see 
him  enjoy  anything  so !  I  never  see  him  look 
so  bright  an'  gleeb  as  he's  looked  this  summer. 
The  poor  boy !  Just  to  think  how  he's  set  in 
that  chair  for  thirty  year,  an'  never  had  a  thing 
to  do  but  read.  Here,  she's  learned  him  to 
play  three  pieces  on  her  banjo.  He  never 'd 
of  learned  if  it  hadn't  of  been  for  her  coming 
here.  He  never 'd  of  thought  of  it.  He  plays 
that  '  Spanish  Fidalgo '  most  as  well  as  she 
does.  He'll  go  an'  forget  it,  though,  without 
anything  to  practice  on.  I've  always  felt  kind 
of  condemned  because  I  won't  let  him  have  a 
dog,  an'  him  alone  so,  without  a  soul  to  talk  to 
when  I'm  at  work  —  but  a  dog  is  a  nuisance, 
around.  Abraham  never  complains  none ;  but 
if  a  dog  runs  up  an'  wags  his  tail  an'  looks  as  if 

237 


THE   LIGHT  THAT   CAME   TO   ABRAHAM 

he  was  saying  *  Ain't  you  lonesome'  to  him,  I 
declare  I  don't  get  over  the  look  in  Abraham's 
eyes  in  a  hurry.  Well,  she's  been  terrible  nice 
to  him.  They  do  say  there's  enough  stories 
about  her  in  town  an'  that's  what  she  come  an' 
buried  herself  alive  for  out  here  in  the  kentry 
all  summer ;  but  all  is,  if  them  stories  is  true 
there's  them  that  don't  have  any  stories  told 
about  them  that  might  learn  kindness  of  her. 
There's  a  plenty  that  says  them  pink  cheeks  of 
her  'n  ain't  natural,  but  the  Lord  knows  I've 
hunted  her  bureau  drawers  faithful  when  she's 
been  out,  an'  I  never  found  any  roosh  any 
wheres.  They're  mighty  pretty,  anyhow.  I 
never  see  Abraham  look  at  anybody  the  way  he 
looks  at  her.  He  can't  seem  to  keep  his  eyes 
off  of  her.  I  never  see  him  look  at  any  girl 
that  way.  She  looks  at  him  a  good  deal,  too. 
The  first  night  she  was  here  she  says  — '  Your 
son's  got  a  soul  in  his  eyes.'  I  wonder  what 
she  meant  by  that.  There  ain't  a  girl  in  the 
hull  neighborhood  but  what's  run  after  him, 
cripple  an'  all,  for  them  black  eyes  of  his  'n  — 
oh,  yes !  an'  his  money.  Geese-heads !  He 
never  wanted  a  one  of  them  !  He  never  took 
no  notice  of  a  one  of  them  !  Just  set  an'  said 
'unh-hunh'  an'  'hunh-unh,'  patient  as  could  be, 
while  they  talked  an'  tee-heed  at  him.  Let  their 
flowers  lay  an'  wilt  an'  never  asked  to  have 

238 


THE   LIGHT   THAT    CAME   TO    ABRAHAM 

them  put  in  water  —  but  just  let  her  bring 
him  a  flower!  It's  'Oh,  mother,  won't  you 
bring  some  water,  quick  ?  Get  the  pretty  vase, 
mother!'  ...  I  bet  he's  terrible  lonesome 
when  she's  gone.  My  land,  I  forgot  the  bread  ! 
Setting  here,  talking  to  myself ! " 


At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  "she"  came 
into  the  still,  twilit  room  where  Abraham  sat 
alone,  with  his  head  bowed  upon  his  breast. 
She  wore  a  white  Grecian  gown  that  fell  about 
her  in  full,  soft  folds.  On  her  breast  was  a 
bunch  of  deep  red  poppies.  Her  reddish  hair 
was  in  a  heavy  braid  down  her  back.  She  car 
ried  her  banjo  in  one  hand. 

She  went  straight  to  him  and  sunk  upon  a 
stool  at  his  feet.  "Abraham,"  she  said,  "I'm 
going  home  to-morrow.  I  shall  take  the  early 
stage  —  so  I've  come  to  play  for  you  once  more, 
and  say  good-by." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  Abraham  said  in 
a  voice  that  sounded  nothing  like  his  own  — 
"Notgood-by!" 

"Yes,  Abraham." 

"  You'll  —  come  again  ?     Some  other  time  ? " 

"I'm  afraid  not.  He  —  my  husband  thinks 
we  shall  live  abroad." 

239 


THE    LIGHT    THAT    CAME    TO    ABRAHAM 

Then  there  was  a  longer  silence.  "  Do  you 
mean,"  said  Abraham  at  last,  "that  I  shall  never 
see  you  again  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  the  dim  light.  Was 
he  a  boy  ?  —  or  was  he  a  man  ?  "  That  is  what 
I  mean,"  she  said,  gently. 

This  time  the  silence  grew  so  long  that  it 
wore  upon  her.  She  rested  one  arm  across  his 
knees,  as  she  had  often  done,  and  touched. the 
strings  of  the  banjo.  He  laid  his  hand  upon 
hers  —  for  the  first  time  —  and  stopped  her. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "before  you 
play  —  I  mightn't  have  strength  to  tell  you 
afterward  —  that  it's  all  right." 

"What  is,  Abraham?" 

"  That  I  shouldn't  see  you  again  —  ever. 
You're  another  man's  wife,  and  I  love  you  !  " 

"Abraham!" 

"It's  all  right.  It's  the  kind  of  love  that 
don't  hurt  any  man  or  any  woman.  I  didn't 
know  it,  even,  till  mother  told  me  you  were 
going  away.  I  don't  think  he  would  care  if  he 
knew  —  and  I  know  God  wouldn't." 

"  Oh,  Abraham  !  " 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  repeated,  pressing  her  hand 
gently.  "  If  I  never  see  you  or  hear  from  you 
again,  I  shall  still  be  happier  than  any  other  man 
on  earth  —  just  because  you've  been  here  and 
I  love  you  !  It's  like  some  one  had  set  a  beau- 
240 


THE    LIGHT    THAT    CAME    TO    ABRAHAM 

tiful  white  light  in  the  dark  for  me.  I  never 
had  any  happiness  in  all  my  life  before.  I 
never  touched  a  woman's  hand,  except  mother's. 
I  never  wanted  to.  I  never  will  again,  now 
that  I  have  touched  yours.  .  .  .  Your  hand  is 
like  your  heart  —  as  pure  as  a  lily." 

"No,  no,"  said  she.     Her  voice  was  shaking. 

"  Don't  ever  send  me  a  picture,"  he  went  on  ; 
"  I  have  you  in  my  heart,  and  pictures  are  poor 
things.  I'll  never  forget  your  voice  ...  or  the 
perfume  you  use  ...  or  the  way  your  dress 
falls  around  you  when  you  sit  down.  I'll  never 
be  lonely  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

She  put  her  head  down  on  his  knee.  He  laid 
his  hand  reverently  on  her  hair.  "  How  beauti 
ful  it  is !  I  know  how  it  looks  in  the  sunlight 
and  in  the  moonlight." 

A  sob  came  to  her  lips. 

"  Don't  pity  me"  he  said,  quickly.  "  Think  of 
me  always  as  one  unto  whom  a  great  light  came 
in  the  dark." 

"I'm  not  pitying  you,  Abraham,"  she  said. 
She  stood  before  him,  drawing  her  hands  away 
slowly.  "I  can't  play  now.  I'll  leave  the  banjo 
for  you.  I've  meant  all  summer  for  you  to  have 
it.  I'm  going  now." 

.  She  stooped  suddenly  and  put  her  trembling 
lips  to  his  forehead.  "  Are  you  glad  I  came?" 
she  whispered. 

241 


THE   LIGHT   THAT    CAME   TO    ABRAHAM 

"Am  I  glad!"  he  repeated  —  and  it  was  as 
if  the  soul  of  God  shone  upon  his  face. 


In  the  morning  he  found  that  one  red  poppy- 
petal  had  fallen  from  her  breast.  He  picked  it 
up  and  laid  it  away,  as  a  sacred  thing,  between 
the  leaves  of  his  Bible.  Then  a  thought  came 
to  him.  He  opened  the  book  to  see  what  line 
it  was  resting  upon.  And  this  was  it :  But 
Mary  stood  without  .  .  .  weeping.  .  .  . 


242 


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